Rockin' Around the ICU
by Mandelene
Summary: It's not Christmas until some kind of medical emergency unfolds. Now Dad has to save Alfred, Papa has to save Dad, and Matthew has to save the holidays.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This story was requested by an awesome anon on Tumblr. It'll probably only be two or three chapters in length, but I hope you enjoy it! Make sure to leave a review if you get the chance, and let me know what you think!

* * *

It's the most wonderful time of the year, or so they say.

Francis has long since abandoned hope in merry TV commercials and annoying Christmas carols. Despite all of the marketing ploys and advertisements, he is not, in the least, excited about the holiday season. For him, December means perpetually cold nights during which he must wear a minimum of three layers of clothing in addition to his fuzzy socks and slippers, only to still feel chilled. It means slushy snow and crowded malls filled with unpleasant people. It means arthritis, icy sidewalks, and an increasingly hollow wallet.

His husband seems to share his sentiments, because when Arthur returns home from work on the first of December, he rolls his aching shoulders and trudges into the kitchen, carrying the definition of gloom with him.

"Bad day at work?" Francis carefully asks, just barely wrangling a kiss from him.

"Don't ask, and don't kiss me. I'm most likely covered in hundreds of pathogens. I need to douse myself in rubbing alcohol," Arthur grumbles, loosening his tie and snapping his eyes shut. "I hate December. Six cases of the flu, four colds, three incidents of pneumonia, a smattering of RSV, and a broad and bountiful abundance of bronchitis."

"And a partridge in a pear tree," Francis sing-songs with a grin as he sets the table for dinner. "I'm disappointed. I thought the turnout would've been higher this year."

"Oh, just give it two more weeks, and you could fill a stadium with viral upper respiratory infections… Where are the boys?"

"Upstairs, doing their homework. Alfred keeps reminding me winter break begins in twenty-two days. Mathieu, on the other hand, is upset at the idea of being away from school for the holidays."

After an entire nine-hour shift of having patients sneeze and cough on him, spreading God knows how many germs, Arthur finds relief in being able to discuss more family-related matters. "If only Alfred had half as much love for school as Matthew does," he says with a hopeful chuckle.

"Alfred is a good boy," Francis insists, coming to his defense. "I didn't enjoy going to school when I was his age either... So, have you found out whether or not you'll be working on Christmas this year?"

"I'll be on-call."

"Of course you will be."

"Oh, don't say it that way. You know I don't have a choice in the matter. There should be plenty of physicians on the unit that day, so hopefully, even if something comes up with a patient, I'll just be able to handle it over the phone."

Francis clicks his tongue but he's not as irritated as he wants to appear. "I know it's not your fault. I just wish we could have _one_ Christmas without interruptions from work getting in the way."

"I'd like that as well, but the hospital is busy this time of year. New Year's is even worse."

"Just promise me you'll try to spend more time with the boys over these next few weeks," Francis murmurs, walking up to Arthur and laying his head on his husband's shoulder. "Please."

Arthur nods, thinks for a moment, and then smirks wryly. "I'll try, as long as you promise to handle all of the Christmas shopping."

"Oh, no, I'm going to make you suffer with me. We still need to find a gift to send to your mother."

"Just send her a card and a picture of the boys."

"We'll do that, too, but we also need a gift."

"Every year, she specifically states she doesn't want any presents."

"That's what everyone says," Francis counters, waving a hand at Arthur in a shooing motion. "I don't know why I bother talking to you about it. I'm the one who'll end up picking the gift anyway. Mrs. Kirkland always appreciates the thought… Oh, now that I think about it, since you're off tomorrow, you should give her a call and see if you can find out what she'd like for Christmas. It'll make my trip to the mall much quicker."

In a rare show of childishness, Arthur lets out a little groan of complaint and whines, "That woman can talk for _hours_."

"You two can catch up. It'll be nice," Francis says with an amused grin, laughing at Arthur's expense. "Don't look at me like you took a bite out of a lemon just now. She's your mother, and in her old age, she will appreciate having the chance to talk to her son."

Arthur glares at him, but it's good-humored. "I was warned not to marry a frog, and now I know why."

"Better a frog than a rosbif."

"I beg to differ... I'll call the boys down for dinner."

When Arthur is out of sight, Francis rolls his eyes, wondering what the rest of December has in store for them.

* * *

Rumor has it that Mr. Braginski, Roosevelt Elementary School's third-grade teacher, is a Russian spy plotting to torture American schoolchildren until the end of time. The wild tales surrounding him have become more detailed and elaborate over the several years he has been teaching, with some older students suggesting a connection between him and the KGB.

After being in the man's class for a little over three months, Alfred and Matthew aren't sure what to make of the murmurings and accusations. All they know is that he assigns double the amount of homework the fourth graders get, and according to anonymous sources, he's a vampire who sucks the blood of the unfortunate children who get detention with him.

One day at recess, a fellow classmate, Feliks, claims Mr. Braginski is definitely associated with the KGB because he heard his grandfather talking about it when he was retelling the history of the Soviet Union. No one is really sure what the KGB exactly is or what the Soviet Union was, but it sounds impressive coming from an eight-year-old, and so—collectively—the class begins to believe him.

Regardless of the Russian teacher's motives, all Alfred knows is that Mr. Braginski hates him. He gets scolded by the man at least five times a day, and it seems everything he does is somehow wrong in his critical eyes. He's extremely strict and unwavering, he gives weekly pop quizzes for math and grammar, and he probably is a blood-sucking vampire!

Matthew, on the other hand, is more sympathetic. The longer they've been in his class, the more he has become convinced the only reason Mr. Braginski is tough is because he wants his students to learn, and he genuinely cares about every child in his care.

Alfred pretends to gag every time he catches Matthew defending him. "He's the worst teacher ever and that's that!" he always says, unwilling to see the other side of the situation.

The closer they get to winter break, the more Alfred's relationship with Mr. Braginski seems to deteriorate. In math class one day, Alfred asks to go to the bathroom, but Mr. Braginski tells him that, unless it's an emergency, he needs to sit through the lesson because it's important that he learns how to multiply decimals. So, Alfred suffers through holding his full bladder and broods for the rest of the day, talking on and on about how cruelly he is often treated.

It takes Matthew a while to recognize it, but there's something deeper and weirder going on than at first glance. Mr. Braginski hasn't become meaner or stricter, but Alfred has become more of a pest in class. His brother asks to go to the bathroom four to six times throughout each day, and when he isn't asking to go to the bathroom, he's asking to get a drink of water.

Both Matthew and Mr. Braginski seem to think Alfred is simply trying to find ways to get out of sitting through lessons, but then on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday morning, Matthew is taken by surprise when Mr. Braginski pulls him aside as the class is going to lunch and asks, "Matthew, do you know if everything is all right with your brother?"

"Umm… I think so," Matthew says, hoping it's a helpful enough response. To the best of his knowledge, nothing is wrong with Alfred other than how annoying he's been as Christmas approaches.

"Would you keep an eye on him for me, please?"

Never one to disappoint an adult, Matthew instantly nods his head and takes on the request as a personal mission. He runs off to the cafeteria to eat lunch with the rest of the class and sits directly next to Alfred (as he always does), intending to pay particular attention to him today.

It's hard to say for sure, but yeah, maybe there could be something a little off with Alfred. It's not that noticeable though. Maybe he picks at his food a little more, and he drinks one more carton of apple juice than he usually does, but that's not necessarily strange.

The rest of the week passes quietly, but the days seem to get longer and drag on. It isn't until the beginning of the third week of December that things start to get interesting. Matthew's investigation finally comes upon a new twist.

On Monday, after Papa drops them off at school, Alfred looks visibly out-of-sorts. He's definitely paler, and he's irritable. Talking to him becomes impossible, and at lunch, he takes a few nibbles of his food and gives up.

Matthew ventures the courage to ask if he's okay, and Alfred responds by lifting glazed eyes at him and murmuring, "My head hurts, and I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Do you want me to tell a teacher?"

"No!" Alfred immediately yells at him, cheeks flushed. "It'll go away."

Why does his brother always have to be this stubborn? It's not like anything horrible will come out of admitting he's unwell. Sure, he'll probably have to stay in bed for a few days and drink some not-so-great tasting medicine, but he'll be okay in the end, and isn't that a better alternative? Matthew would much rather be snuggled under the covers of his bed and have a bowl of Papa's soup when sick than suffer in silence and not have anyone to take care of him.

But Alfred's way of reasoning is different, so Matthew gives him the benefit of the doubt and lets the whole thing slide. Besides, he can remember a few times when he himself wasn't in the mood for lunch, and maybe Alfred's just thinking about too much or feeling sad, and that's why he doesn't want to eat, in which case, he deserves some space.

But two hours later, they're off to gym, and Alfred comes in sixth in the relay races, even though he's normally one of the fastest boys in the class and always ends up being among the top three runners. After the race, he asks the teacher to go get a drink of water from the water fountain, and Matthew sees him stumble uneasily across the gymnasium and around the corner, looking even paler.

Matthew almost risks telling the gym teacher Alfred is sick, but he stops himself at the last second because he doesn't want Alfred to be angry with him. If Alfred finds out he tattled, he'll get the silent treatment for at least three days, and nothing is worse than the silent treatment when you have to share a room with the person who hates you.

At dismissal, Matthew prays Papa will notice something is off with Alfred and save him the trouble of having to tattle. Unfortunately, Papa's mind is elsewhere, and it doesn't occur to him that Alfred is dragging his feet and his face is completely drained of all color. He talks about how busy it's been at the restaurant he cooks at and how there's still so much cleaning and shopping to be done in the week and a half left before Christmas.

Dad, however, seems to be at least vaguely aware that something isn't right. During dinner that night, he notices Alfred has lost his appetite.

"What's wrong, Alfred? Why aren't you eating?" he asks.

Alfred responds by shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know. I'm not hungry."

Dad reaches across the table to feel Alfred's forehead and frowns. "No fever… Do you feel ill?"

"A little," Alfred admits, taking a big gulp of water.

"What hurts?"

"I just feel… icky."

Dad nods reassuringly and replies, "All right, well, maybe you're coming down with something. Why don't you go to bed early tonight, and we'll see how you feel in the morning?"

And then, the weirdest thing of all happens; Alfred doesn't protest having to go to bed two hours sooner than he usually does. He leaves the rest of his plate untouched, changes into his PJs, and goes right to sleep. For a good while, Matthew stares at him from his side of the bedroom, stunned. He reads silently under a soft lamplight as to not wake his brother, and Dad comes in to check on them after another hour or so.

Dad quietly steps over to Alfred's bedside first, feels his forehead again, and tucks him in. Alfred doesn't even stir at the disturbance.

Then, he comes to Matthew's bed, smooths back his hair, and whispers, "Goodnight, my boy."

"Goodnight, Dad."

"Sleep tight."

"Is Alfred going to be okay?"

"He doesn't have a fever, but I'll have Papa check his temperature again throughout the day tomorrow. It might just be an upset stomach."

Matthew nods and feels a little more reassured. Dad pulls the covers up and tucks him in just as he did to Alfred, turns out the reading lamp, and leaves, keeping the door open a few inches.

* * *

"Arthur, maybe we should take him to the clinic. He needs to see a doctor."

"And what am I? A midwife?" Dad asks with dripping sarcasm and a lighthearted smirk in the early morning as they greet another freezing winter day. "It's probably the beginning of a stomach bug that's going around. There's not much that can be done. We'll keep him at home for now, and I'll be here tomorrow to monitor him if it's not better."

Papa sighs and reluctantly agrees. "Are you sure you can't give him an antibiotic or something?"

"I don't know what he has yet, so no."

"But he's in pain."

Dad gives an unhappy and crabby Alfred a reassuring smile before straightening up to his full height. "I'll bring up some pain relievers and take Matthew to school. I wish I didn't have to work today… Francis, are you sure you'll be able to take care of Alfred on your own?"

"I'll try my best."

And so, Papa stays home with Alfred, takes his temperature periodically even though he remains fever-free, and ultimately feels helpless because he has absolutely no idea what he should do next.

"Do you feel any better?" Papa asks when he comes in to check up on him an hour later.

Alfred bites his lip and shakes his head. "I feel the same."

"Hmm, you should try to eat something. Are you hungry?"

"No, I'm thirsty," Alfred mumbles sleepily.

"I'll bring you some orange juice."

It isn't until about noon that Alfred admits to himself that something is really wrong with him. It's not just a stomach ache. He's sweating, his head is pounding, and every time he tries to stand, he gets dizzy and has to sit back down again. While Papa is downstairs taking care of errands and making lunch, Alfred lies in bed and thinks about all of the possible things that could be making him sick. What if he has cancer? Or what if he's gonna have a stroke and die? He's heard Dad talk about so many people who can get sick out of the blue and maybe now it's finally happening to him.

He can't explain it, but there's this panicky sensation that keeps running through his veins. He's never usually this nervous and anxious, but now his mind races with possibilities, and thoughts of potentially dying scare him to the point where he starts to cry. At first, he only sheds a few tears, and as he's doing that, he suddenly vomits into the garbage bin by his bed. The acrid aftertaste causes his crying to get louder, until finally, he starts sobbing loud, unabated sobs.

Papa rushes into the room, just as panicked. "Alfred! _Mon chou_ , what's wrong? Did you get sick? It's okay."

But Alfred isn't consoled in the least, it's as though he's feeling worse and worse by the minute now, and he's so distraught he's on the verge of hyperventilating. His breaths come out in short, shallow gasps, and Papa is absolutely hysterical with worry.

"Shh, shh, _mon lapin_ ," Papa pleads with him, kissing his head. He cleans out the garbage bin, brings Alfred a fresh glass of water, and asks, "Are you feeling much worse?"

Alfred nods, and as soon as his stomach feels a little calmer, he realizes he really has to pee. With Papa's help, he climbs out of bed and makes it to the bathroom on teetering legs, sweating profusely.

"Okay, Alfred. I'm going to call your father at work. He'll know what to do."

He's so dizzy he's afraid he's going to collapse on the ground as he's flushing the toilet or washing his hands. He's never felt like this before, and now he wants nothing but to go back to sleep and hope Dad comes home soon so he can fix him.

He manages to make it back to his room by himself, and he can hear Papa talking to Dad on speakerphone somewhere in the distance. "He's not getting any better. He just vomited, and he's _very_ pale. He looks like he might faint."

Alfred's crying quiets into sniffles as he hears Dad's voice on the other line say, "Has he been drinking water?"

"Yes, that's the one good thing. He's been thirsty and has been drinking," Papa replies.

Dad, however, isn't reassured by this tidbit. "He's been thirsty?"

"Yes, that's what I said."

"Exactly what have you given him to drink today?"

"Well, I think he's had two glasses of orange juice, and about three or four bottles of water since this morning."

Dad sharply interjects, "That doesn't sound like someone who has a stomach illness. He should've been putting up a fuss about staying hydrated. Don't give him any more juice. What are his other symptoms?"

"He's sweating, he said his head hurts, and he's dizzy."

"What does his breath smell like?"

Papa frowns, confused. "What?"

"Does his breath smell fruity at all?"

Papa shakes his head in exasperation and sighs angrily, "I don't know! How would I be able to tell?"

"It should be obvious."

"I'm not the doctor, you are!"

Dad mutters something under his breath about "dramatic frogs," and says, "I need to try to figure out what's wrong first. You said his temperature was normal just a little while ago?"

" _Oui_."

"If a virus was causing this, he would've had some sign of infection or fever by now, but we won't rule it out. Can Alfred hear me? Let me talk to him."

Papa walks into the bedroom and places his phone on the nightstand next to Alfred and informs Dad, "You're on speakerphone."

"Okay… Alfred, love, are you still thirsty?"

Alfred rouses himself out his lethargy just long enough to mumble, "Uh-huh."

"He's falling asleep," Papa remarks.

"Don't let him. He's breathing rapidly. I can hear it."

"But that's because he was crying."

"No, it's not. You need to bring him to the hospital immediately. Let's hope this isn't what it's beginning to look like."

"What do you think it is?"

"We won't know for sure until you bring him here. Stay calm, but act quickly. I'll meet you in the ER," Dad instructs, leaving no room for further questions. "I'll get out of my shift and find someone to cover for me."

"B-But is he going to be all right?"

"Francis, please," Dad sighs, and the situation must not be good because he's not saying everything's going to be fine like he usually does when something's not a big deal.

The sharpness of Dad's words combined with the seriousness of his condition makes Alfred start crying again. What if Dad can't fix him? What if he really is going to die and—?

"Okay, Alfred, let's get you changed and into the car."

"I d-don't want to go! I want Dad to come here!"

"I know, _mon chou_ , but your father will be able to help you more effectively at the hospital, not at home," Papa states, pulling off Alfred's t-shirt and replacing it with a new one.

He's crying so much it's hard to breathe, and Papa's hands are shaking as he hefts him up into his arms and carries him out to the driveway, singing gentle lullabies and cooing sweet words to him. It's such a sudden turn of events. "Shh, shh… You'll be taken good care of soon."

It's a short drive, but it feels like forever and a day. The stoplights change slowly, the other cars ahead of them seem to be taking their time, the streets wind and curve on and on, until finally, the view of the hospital emerges, and Papa parks the car, helps Alfred up, and supports him as they enter the ER. They walk up to a woman sitting behind a little desk shielded by a glass window, and she asks Papa to fill out some paperwork and describe what the problem with Alfred is. When all of the forms have been taken care of, the woman tells them to take a seat in the triage and wait to be called inside.

Alfred's name is called less than fifteen minutes later, and he ambles through the double doors with Papa and is told to sit in a plastic chair by the wall. A nurse in purple scrubs comes up to them, introduces herself, and tries to take Alfred's vitals, but Alfred, being the difficult patient he often is, screams and cries until it feels like his lungs are going to erupt.

The nurse, poor woman, tries her best to calm him, but it's futile. No matter how hard she and Papa try to subdue him, he thrashes and shouts to the point where his voice becomes hoarse.

"What are you doing to my child?" Dad asks sarcastically, appearing in the doorway with a silver-haired stranger in a white coat. "Let me try."

Papa lets out a relieved breath and steps back as Dad crouches down in front of where Alfred is sitting and plants a feathery kiss on his forehead. Fortunately, this stops the worst of the screaming and fussing.

"Alfred, something tells me you're going to drive everyone in this hospital to drink," Dad jokes before taking a thermometer from the nurse and placing it under his tongue. Then, he takes a pulse oximeter off of the counter and says, "Hold out your hand for me, poppet. This won't hurt."

Alfred is skeptical and pulls his hands close to his sides, clearly afraid as the thermometer wobbles between his quivering lips.

"This little device tells me how fast your heart is beating and if you're getting enough oxygen when you breathe," Dad explains, trying a new tactic. He takes the pulse oximeter and clamps it on his own finger to prove it's harmless. "See? Look at the screen."

Alfred looks down at the little numbers on the device and finally holds out his hand, convinced he isn't going to be subjected to any additional pain. Dad carefully puts it on his left index finger and waits for the reading, frowning when he gets it.

"Elevated pulse and eighty-nine percent oxygen saturation," Dad tells the nurse and the other man in the white coat whom he hasn't introduced. He also takes the thermometer out of Alfred's mouth and adds, "Normal temperature."

"Dad, I wanna go home," Alfred whines, having had enough of this whole hospital ordeal already.

"I know, my boy, but you can't go home yet. You're unwell," Dad says patiently, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Alfred's upper arm. "Hold still for a moment."

"Is it gonna hurt?"

"No, it's not going to hurt."

The tight sensation of the cuff inflating feels uncomfortable, but Dad's right, it doesn't hurt, so Alfred doesn't complain. He stays still like Dad tells him to, and it's over within a few moments.

"140 over 80."

"Is that bad?" Alfred asks worriedly.

"It's a bit high."

The nurse checks his height and weight and puts a hospital bracelet on his wrist, and Dad helps him stand up from the plastic chair. Apparently, Alfred has lost seven pounds without anyone noticing.

Their whole party moves out and relocates to one of the many curtained rooms in the ER, and Dad and Papa help lift him up and into a bed. When he's settled, Dad turns to the strange man he brought with him and says, "Alfred, this is Dr. Gilbert Beilschmidt, a pediatrician and one of my colleagues. He's here to help, all right? So I expect you not to give him any trouble."

"Ah, just call me Gilbert, kiddo," the doctor says, stepping forward and shaking Alfred's hand. "Heard you've been feeling like poop for a while now. Lucky for you, I'm like, totally awesome at what I do, and every single kid that comes in here feeling like poop is better than ever when I'm done with them, so you're gonna be fine. Plus, your dad over here isn't too shabby himself, so you've got nothing to worry about, short-stuff."

"I'm not short," Alfred mumbles, eyes only half-open now.

"Yeah, you are. Don't deny it. Are you feeling sleepy?"

On cue, Alfred opens his mouth and yawns, "Yeah."

"Acetone breath," Gilbert suddenly says, turning to glance at Dad. "Let's deal with the low oxygen saturation first, then do an EKG, bloodwork, urine, and a finger-stick. If we find ketones, we're bringing him up to the ICU."

"And a normal saline drip, I presume," Dad chimes in.

"Yup. If he's this lethargic, we don't have a lot of time."

None of what is being said makes any sense to Alfred. He just lies still and thinks about how this is worse than doing decimals with Mr. Braginski. Papa's standing in the corner and his eyes are red for some reason as he holds a hand to his cheek and watches the buzz of everything that's going on.

Alfred could go for a nap right now, but Dad and Gilbert sit him up, and he's changed into a hospital gown against his will. Then, they're putting a nasal cannula in his nose, and it feels cold and gross, so he tries to yank it out with his hand, but Dad tells him firmly to leave it alone because it'll help with his breathing.

"Wouldn't it be better to have the nurses do this?" Gilbert asks, but it sounds distant to Alfred's ears.

"Yes, but he won't let any of the nurses near him. He might not even let _you_ touch him, and we don't have time to waste," Dad responds before taking a bunch of stuff out of a cabinet against the wall.

Gilbert, meanwhile, presses a cold stethoscope against Alfred's back and says, "Take a deep breath, kid."

Alfred does so, and when Gilbert's heard enough, he starts attaching sticky circles to his chest. "W-What're those for?" he asks.

"It's so we can check to make sure your heart's working like it should, and you don't have any arrhythmias. They're called electrodes," Gilbert explains.

"Feels funny."

"Is it as funny as this?" Gilbert asks before taking a glove out of his pocket with a majestic flourish, blowing into it, and tying it off into a makeshift balloon animal. "It's a turkey."

From the other side of the room Dad shakes his head in amusement and chuckles, impressed. "Have you considered joining the circus, Beilschmidt?"

" _Ja_ , if the whole doctor thing gets boring, maybe."

Alfred takes the turkey-balloon and smiles, laughing. "It's cool."

"Thanks! I can make a dog, too, but it always ends up having different sized ears," Gilbert says, a bit disappointed in himself. He finishes sticking the electrodes on Alfred's chest, attaches some colored wires to each of them, and then a machine to the right of the bed lights up and starts working. A steady beeping sound fills the room, and Alfred is intrigued by the little lines indicating his heart rhythm. It's over in a few minutes, and Gilbert disconnects the wires again.

Then, Dad sits on the side of the bed, takes Alfred's arm, and swabs the crook of his arm. "I'm going to draw your blood, Alfred, so I need you to hold still."

"But it's gonna hurt!" Alfred whines, certain this can't be good news because nothing that involves needles is ever a pleasant experience.

"Only for a second. I know you can handle it. You're a brave boy," Dad insists, tying a blue tourniquet above Alfred's elbow. "Gilbert thinks so, too."

"Yup!" Gilbert agrees helpfully, flashing a bright grin. "You're tough stuff, kid. You've got this. Wanna hold my hand? I made your dad hold my hand once when the hospital was making us get our annual flu shots. I'm a big chicken, so if I could do it, you can."

Alfred laughs again, feeling emboldened, and he sees Papa smiling at him from the corner of his eye. "Okay."

"All right, make a fist, poppet," Dad says, and Alfred obeys. With his free hand, he grabs onto Gilbert's hand and squeezes it.

He flinches when the needle breaks through his skin, but once it's in, it stops hurting so much. Gilbert makes him gently turn his head and says, "Don't look. Look at me instead. There's a good kiddo."

It takes less than a minute, and then Dad pulls the needle out and presses a fluffy cotton ball onto the spot and covers it with a band-aid. He disposes of the needle in a little bin hanging on the wall, labels the tubes filled with Alfred's blood, and says, "You did an excellent job."

"Thanks!" Gilbert beams.

"Not you!"

Alfred lets another short snicker escape him and thinks that must surely have been the worst part, but it seems Gilbert and Dad aren't finished poking and prodding him yet. Dad takes Alfred to the bathroom and makes him pee in a cup, which is embarrassing, but thankfully, not as bad as being subjected to needles.

Then, once he's in bed again, Dad says he's going to put in his IV, and Alfred has heard about IVs before, and they definitely involve a needle, which is completely unfair because he's already had to deal with one needle, and now there's another one? Why torture him like this?

Gilbert holds his hand again, and this time, the needle goes into the sensitive skin of Alfred's hand—in one of the veins just beneath his knuckles. It hurts more than the other one earlier, and he cries out in pain and surprise as everyone tries to calm him.

"Shh, shh, I know. I'm sorry, love, but it has to be done… I know, I know," Dad murmurs over and over again, covering the area with some durable, clear tape so that the IV catheter stays in place. "Don't touch it."

"Take it out," Alfred cries, no longer feeling brave. Fresh tears fall from his eyes, and both Dad and Gilbert slump their shoulders sadly.

"I can't take it out yet, poppet. After a while, you won't even notice it anymore," Dad says, ruffling his hair. "It's okay… I know this isn't fun, but it's the only way to make you well again."

This time, Papa weaves his way between Gilbert and Dad and sits beside Alfred, holding him. "Your father and Dr. Beilschmidt know best, Alfred. You need to trust them."

But that's _still_ not the end of the needles. Dad has the nerve to take out a pen-like mechanism, swab his second to last finger, and say, "I'm going to check your blood sugar."

A needle rears its head out of the tip of the pen, and it pricks the delicate flesh of Alfred's finger, drawing more blood.

"Oww!" Alfred shouts, trying to draw his hand back but failing as Dad holds him in a firm grip. He leads his bleeding finger onto a small test strip attached to a little monitoring device, and the device beeps within several seconds. "That hurt!"

"It wasn't so bad," Dad insists as he puts a bandage over this puncture wound as well. "It'll feel all better in a minute or two," he promises. "Beilschmidt, get a bed ready in the ICU for us."

Gilbert raises a brow. "But we didn't get the lab work back yet. What's his sugar?"

"Not good. Five hundred and sixteen."

"Ah, shit," Gilbert says without thinking. He strides away, pulls open the privacy curtain to leave the room, and mutters, "Okay, I'll be back."

Now Alfred's in the room with just Papa and Dad. It's completely quiet until Papa speaks up and asks, "His blood sugar is high?"

"Yes, very much so," Dad says, frowning down worriedly at Alfred before running a gentle hand through his hair. "Alfred, we're going to move you to a different unit where you can be monitored better, okay?"

"Okay, I'm tired," Alfred whispers, shutting his eyes.

"I know, but try to stay awake a little longer for me."

"Mmm…"

Dad makes a tutting noise and squeezes Papa's shoulder…Wait…Why is Papa crying?

"Francis…"

Papa hides his face in his hands and mumbles out a muffled apology, shoulders hunched and back arched. Dad hugs him tightly and whispers something in his ear, and then Papa nods his head and steps out of the room for a minute.

"Dad?" Alfred asks weakly, breathing still a little too quickly for comfort.

"Yes, my boy?"

"Is it bad?"

"Is what bad?"

"Like... Whatever's wrong with me, is it bad?"

Dad continues petting his head and says, "We'll take good care of you, so you don't have to worry about a thing."

"Can I go home soon?"

"No, not for a while, I fear."

"Am I going to go to school tomorrow?"

"Oh, no, of course not," Dad says, and Alfred doesn't know if this is something he should be rejoicing in or not.

"So when am I gonna go back to school, then?"

"At the earliest, sometime next week."

"But winter break starts then."

"In that case, you won't be going back to class until after winter break," Dad decrees, and Alfred feels something in his chest sink down to his stomach.

"A-Am I going to have to be here until Christmas? I wanna go home!"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, try to rest."

But Alfred doesn't take this news very well. He finds himself crying again just as Gilbert returns, and he's upset to the point that he refuses to look at anyone or acknowledge their existence.

"Want another balloon animal, Alfred?" Gilbert asks, but Alfred shakes his head and feels the need to throw up again.

"Stay with him for a moment," Dad says to Gilbert before disappearing, and Alfred doesn't know how to tell Dad to stay while also continuing to be mad at him.

"Don't cry, kid. Look, I'll try to make that dog I was talking about earlier."

Gilbert inflates another glove, effectively destroying it, and his dog ends up looking more like a worm with ears. It's not as funny the second time around.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you for the amazing response on the previous chapter. You guys are absolutely terrific! Enjoy! :D

* * *

There are very few things in the world that are worse than seeing one's child in a hospital bed. No matter how many patients Arthur treats, or how many lives he witnesses being ruined or lost, nothing compares to the wrenching pain of parenthood—of having to accept that there are some injuries and illnesses he's not capable of taking away.

So when he finds Francis doubled over in a chair outside of the unit, he struggles to approach him because he knows exactly how it hurts. He must feel as though he has failed Alfred somehow, even though he's a wonderful father who has given their boys a beautiful life filled with love and warmth.

"Francis?"

A head of wavy blond hair snaps up to look at him. "Arthur…I'm sorry. I'm being ridiculous."

"You're not being ridiculous, and you have nothing to apologize for," Arthur tells him with an empathetic smile, stepping forward to put his arms around his husband's shoulders. "You're understandably worried, but I promise Alfred will be all right, so you don't need to be upset."

Francis rubs the sleeve of his sweater over his eyes and chuckles without any mirth. "I know—he just gave me a scare today."

Arthur presses a kiss to his cheek and offers a reassuring laugh. "It isn't the first time the boys have put us under stress like this. Remember when Matthew decided to run away when he was six?"

"Oh, don't remind me. When we found him at the bus stop in the next neighborhood over, I thought I was going to put bars on his windows and lock him in his room until he turned forty," Francis says with a broken laugh of his own. "We've been put through hell a few times."

"But these years with the boys have also been some of the best we've had."

" _Oui_ , and that is why Alfred needs to recover quickly. Do you know what's making him sick yet?"

Arthur nods. "It's type one diabetes, but we won't know how serious it is until we get the rest of his labs back. What concerns us is that he's displaying signs of ketoacidosis—a complication of untreated diabetes in which one's blood becomes acidic—and it has the potential to be very dangerous, so we'd like to be cautious and bring him into intensive care until his glucose levels have stabilized. With insulin, plenty of IV fluids, and rest, he should be all right within a few days to a week, depending on how well he reacts to the medication. He's going to feel miserable for a little longer before it gets better."

Francis frowns and mutters, "How could we not know our son is diabetic?"

"It can go undiagnosed for a while, and since Alfred is in school most of the day, it's understandable we didn't notice many of the changes until now," Arthur reasons. "We'll just have to be careful from now on by regulating his diet and making sure to check his blood sugar frequently. He'll also need to carry an insulin pump around with him."

"But he'll be okay?"

"Yes, he'll be okay," Arthur says with a comforting smile. "Beilschmidt is one of the doctors in the pediatric ICU, and he's competent, although he may not seem like it. I wouldn't have enlisted his help if I didn't think he was suited for the job. I'll also be with Alfred around the clock to make sure things go smoothly."

Francis swallows thickly and pulls himself together, feeling more positive. "Alfred is probably wondering where you are right now. I've kept you here too long. Go to him."

But before Arthur takes off again, he produces a handkerchief from his pocket and passes it to him. "Take yourself home, eat something, and pick up Matthew from school. The worst thing you could do is sit here all day and worry. Visiting hours aren't over until nine o'clock, so you can come back in a few hours. I'll call you if anything changes."

Francis dabs at his red nose with the handkerchief and begrudgingly agrees, even though he'd rather stay for as long as possible. "What do I tell Mathieu?"

"Tell him the truth. Tell him Alfred is ill and will have to stay in the hospital for a while."

"He'll be devastated," Francis says, sniffling and clearing his throat. He exchanges a brief kiss with Arthur and adds, "I love you," before making his way to the exit.

"I love you, too. It's going to be okay."

They part ways, and when no one is around to see him, Arthur brings a hand to his temples and pushes down his own immense feelings of worry. He has to stay focused. He can't allow himself to let his emotions get the best of him, not now.

Time to get to work.

* * *

"Kid? Can you hear me? Alfred… Earth to Alfred. This is Houston speaking," Gilbert says playfully, nudging Alfred's side. "Keep your eyes open, buddy-boy. Tell me what you're feeling right now."

"I feel… cloudy," Alfred says in a groggy voice, head lolling to the side.

"I didn't know cloudy could be a feeling, but all right, I think I know what you're talking about. It feels like your head is full of air, and it's hazy?"

"Uh-huh."

"Got it," Gilbert confirms, pulling up the bedrail and snapping it into place just as Dad enters the room. "We're taking you upstairs, kid. You'll get to go on a little tour of the hospital, and you don't even have to get out of bed. Isn't that awesome?"

"Mmm," Alfred hums.

"Less and less responsive, Kirkland. Let's get moving," Gilbert urges.

Alfred watches Dad pull on some kind of lever at the end of the bed, and it causes the bed's wheels to slide from their previously locked position. Then, before Alfred can even register what's happening, Gilbert is pushing the bed forward and out of the room while Dad walks alongside them.

"Outta the way!" Gilbert exclaims, waving a hand through the air as though he's directing traffic. He speeds down the hallway and toward the elevators, nearly colliding with a nurse and a radiologist. It reminds Alfred a little of how he rode the bumper cars at the carnival last summer, and he giggles at the rush of air slicing through his hair as Gilbert rolls him away faster and faster.

"Hey! Beilschmidt, don't drive recklessly," Dad shouts, just barely keeping up.

"Eeeee-yaaaww, eeeeee-yaaaww," Gilbert shrieks, poorly mimicking the sound of an ambulance's siren. "Comin' through!

It's becoming more and more difficult to decipher who the eight-year-old here is.

When they reach the elevators without—miraculously—causing any additional injuries to anyone, Dad throws Gilbert an unamused, sidelong glare. "Please don't run over any patients, although that would make for an interesting malpractice suit."

Gilbert's unfazed. He hits the button for the sixth floor and says to Alfred, "As you can see, this is one of our luxurious elevators. Every now and then it gets stuck between the second and third floors, but it looks like it's actually working today, and we won't have to call the fire department to get us out. Great!"

Dad rolls his eyes and reassuringly pats one of Alfred's knees. "The man's had too many cups of coffee today, love. Don't pay him any mind."

"Don't tell him that! He's gotta pay me some mind—I'm his doctor," Gilbert pouts as the doors of the elevator slide open again, and they're greeted by the mosaic of colors and happy children's characters covering the walls of the pediatric ICU.

"So am I," Dad retorts, and this time, he takes control of steering the bed because Gilbert's a menace. "I'm also his father, and I get the last word."

Gilbert huffs and sticks his tongue out at Dad. "You're not on this unit's team though, so ha!"

"How you made it through medical school continues to elude me. What's our room number?"

"Second room on the right," Gilbert instructs, leading the way.

The first thing Alfred notices about this place is that it's way nicer than the ER. The machines look more sleek and refined, the rooms for the patients are bigger and covered completely with glass on the outside, so that they're totally visible to passersby, and there's a desk between every two rooms where either a nurse or doctor is sitting.

"This is your stop, kid," Gilbert announces before carefully helping him stand. "We're moving you to a new bed. These beds are at least a little more comfortable than the one you've been chilling in."

And Gilbert's right about that. As soon as Dad lifts him up and lays him down on the new bed, Alfred feels a lot better, and his urge to sleep increases tenfold. He shuts his eyes, lets out a little sigh, and this time, Dad and Gilbert don't insist he stays awake. They just continue shuffling around him and, before he dozes off, he notices Gilbert hooking him up to a cardiac monitor. A relentless beeping begins, and Dad fiddles with his IV, starting a fresh saline drip.

"Now we wait for the lab results to come in any minute, and we'll start him on insulin therapy," Gilbert murmurs in a soft voice. "Poor kid's tuckered out… I've gotta go check on another new admission next door, but I'll be back soon."

He hears Gilbert leave, and then, the bed dips as Dad sits down next to him. He feels his father's thumb brushing against his flushed cheek and that's the last nudge he needs to finally fall asleep.

* * *

Papa's got crinkles in his forehead—a clear sign something is amiss—so when Matthew trots away from the rest of his class, he walks right up to him and tugs on his arm insistently, demanding an answer as to what's bothering his parent.

"Mathieu, wait here for a second. I need to speak to your teacher," Papa says, shrugging out of his grasp.

No "hello" or "how was school today?" That's odd.

Fortunately, Matthew has honed his detective skills over the years. On more than one occasion, an eavesdropped conversation here and there has provided excellent blackmail against Alfred, and now, although the circumstances are different, he can put those gifts to good use.

"Ah, Mr. Bonnefoy-Kirkland, Matthew told me Alfred was feeling under the weather. Is everything all right now?" Mr. Braginski asks with a hint of concern.

"Actually, that's what I wanted to speak to you about," Papa explains, moving to stand next to the man, and Matthew has to lean in to hear him better. "Alfred is in the hospital as of this afternoon, and he may not return to school until after the break."

Taken aback, Mr. Braginski clicks his tongue sadly and asks, "Is he going to be all right?"

"Yes, he should be fine, but he won't be attending class anytime soon."

"I wish him a speedy recovery. The class isn't the same without Alfred," Mr. Braginski says with a frown, and he puts a hand on Papa's back supportively. "We will keep him in our thoughts."

Papa nods stiffly and his shoulders tremble a little. "Thank you," he remarks before he starts to walk away from the school, and Matthew hurries after him, bug-eyed and brimming with fear for his brother's well-being.

"Alfred's in the hospital?"

"It isn't nice to listen in on other people's conversations, Mathieu. I was going to tell you in a moment."

Forget manners and social etiquette, there are more important matters on his mind. He grabs Papa's hand to force him to slow down and stammers, "W-What's wrong with him?"

"His blood sugar is high, and it's made him very sick," Papa replies, coming to a stop. "We're going to visit him tonight, but first, you need to have dinner and take care of your schoolwork."

How's he supposed to do homework when he knows Alfred's doing so poorly? Within seconds, he's already thinking about all of the possible things he could do to make his twin feel better. For starters, he's going to have to make a card. Balloons wouldn't hurt either. Oh, and flowers, of course. He's going to have to tell all of Alfred's friends about what's going on, and maybe he should give him his Christmas present earlier than planned.

Papa lifts him up into a hug and rubs his head. "He's in good hands, so you don't need to worry."

Don't worry? He _has_ to worry! He's his _brother_! Without Alfred, who is he going to have pillow fights with in the middle of the night? Who's going to tell him scary stories and make him laugh? How's he going to sneak into Dad and Papa's room to play dress-up in their old clothes from the seventies and eighties without Alfred keeping watch and acting as a scout?

It's settled, then. His new mission commences right now. He's got a brother to heal.

* * *

"Here, take a look for yourself."

"Ketones in his urine after all."

"Yup, lots of 'em, but we've got another problem I'm more worried about."

"His potassium is low," Alfred hears Dad say as he's waking up from his nap, eyes glassy and unfocused.

"Bingo, and the second we give him insulin, it's going to drop even lower. The last thing we need is for him to get hypokalemia. He's been peeing all of his electrolytes away, so I'm gonna give him some potassium tablets, and then let the nurse give him his insulin. He'll need to have his sugar checked every hour, and we have to keep a close eye on him because his bloodwork is a huge hodgepodge right now."

Dad sighs heavily and there's a shuffling of papers. "His CBC isn't great, and his kidneys are likely overworked. Get the potassium supplements, and let's hope he swallows them. Otherwise, he'll need to take it by IV."

Alfred's head finally begins to clear, and the bleariness in his vision goes away. The cardiac monitor is still beeping and driving him crazy, and Dad's still in the room with him, looking grave. He sits up, but for some reason, he's weaker than he was a few hours ago, and it hurts to have to use his muscles.

"Don't get up," Dad warns, gently guiding him back into a supine position. "Stay still, I'll adjust the bed for you so you don't have to move."

There's a little remote control hanging from the side of the bed, and Dad presses a button on it. The mattress suddenly rumbles, and Alfred lets his head, neck, shoulders, and chest be lifted, feeling like a useless ragdoll.

"Better?"

"Mruugh. I wanna go home."

"Not yet, love."

Gilbert strolls in with two potassium pills in a little paper cup, whistling "Jingle Bell Rock" to himself as he approaches Alfred and passes him his spoils. "There you go, kid. Brought some yummy stuff for you. You've gotta take it to feel better okay?"

"No," Alfred resists, feeling hot and flushed all over. The nausea is still gurgling in his belly, and his head is throbbing. "Don't wanna…"

Dad opens a bottle of water for him and has to force-feed him the pills. He's too weak and sick to keep up the struggle, and eventually, he surrenders, taking the supplements with a large swig of water.

"Good lad," Dad praises, capping off the rest of the water left in the bottle and disposing of the empty paper cup. When that's taken care of, he sits down in the chair by the bed and lets his green eyes slide shut for a moment, resting as Gilbert wanders off again.

"Hey, Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Why is that nurse staring at us?" Alfred asks, noticing the woman keeping watch over them from the other side of the glass window by the entrance to the room.

Without opening his eyes, Dad mutters, "She's not staring."

"She keeps looking over at me though. What's she doing then?"

"She's monitoring you."

"Why?"

"Every patient in the ICU has to be under constant supervision. There has to be someone at the desk, twenty-four hours a day."

"But why?"

Dad leans back in his chair and explains, "Because the patients on this unit are very sick."

"Oh…"

There isn't much to do around here. Now that he's up from his nap, Alfred finds himself becoming increasingly bored, and there's nothing to distract him from the pain in his stomach and the weird, achy feeling in all of his bones. There's a television on the wall, but he's not sure how to turn it on…

"Dad? Can I watch some T.V?"

Dad cracks his eyes open, massages the back of his neck, and picks up the same remote he used to fix the bed earlier. He deposits it in Alfred's lap and says, "Press the button at the top left."

Alfred follows the order, and the T.V. blares to life. He turns the volume down and flips the channel to some cartoons, and it drowns out some of the annoying noise coming from the cardiac monitor.

Around halfway into an episode about a young girl having superpowers and fighting bad guys, the nurse that he accused of staring comes into the room and starts an insulin drip. Meanwhile, Dad is in a half-awake, half-asleep state, chin in his hand.

It's all fine and swell, until Alfred feels a tingling sensation in his throat. He tries to swallow it away, but the feeling gets worse, and it starts to itch a little. "Dad? Dad, I feel funny."

"What is it?" Dad grumbles tiredly.

"My throat… It's getting really itchy."

With frightening speed, Dad's eyes shoot open and he bolts out of the chair so quickly he accidentally kicks the edge of the bed. Immediately, he stops the insulin drip by hitting something on the machine linked to the IV line. "Nurse! Anaphylaxis!" he shouts before pulling a penlight out of his pocket and hovering over Alfred. "Open your mouth."

Alfred complies, but his throat starts to swell and makes it hard to breathe, like someone is squeezing his neck.

A series of pitter-patters of rushing feet echo in the room, and Gilbert and the stalker nurse are on site now. The nurse hands something to Dad, and then, before Alfred realizes it, he feels the rush of a medication getting quickly pushed into his vein. It feels really weird.

"Ughhh," Alfred groans.

"Shh… There, there," Dad tells him, and the nurse replaces his IV drip with another medication. "You should feel better in a minute… The antihistamines and epinephrine should kick in."

His heart is pounding, but his airways open up, and he gasps with painstaking breaths until finally, the pressure in his throat relaxes, and the itchiness goes away. Dad's got a stethoscope on his chest now, and he murmurs, "It's all right. Take some deep breaths."

"The kid's trying to give me a heart attack," Gilbert harrumphs, and he's the one peering into Alfred's mouth this time. "Well, we're not giving you those meds again."

"What type of insulin was that?" Dad asks, a little breathless himself.

"Lispro," Gilbert replies, patting Alfred's head soothingly. "We'll try something else. There's a crap ton of insulin choices, and you can't be allergic to all of them."

Dad nods and visibly begins to calm. "Alfred, how are you feeling?"

"Not as bad," Alfred whispers, suddenly drained of energy again, like he's just finished a relay race in gym class. His hands are shaking, and he doesn't know why. His heart is also thumping against his ribs, and he's grateful the bedrail is up, because otherwise, he'd probably have fallen out of bed by now. "Everything's moving too fast," he moans, and the beeping of the cardiac monitor gets quicker.

"That's because of the epinephrine," Dad explains, squeezing his shoulder. "You're going to feel restless until it wears off. How does your throat feel?"

"Doesn't itch anymore," Alfred sighs before flapping an arm sluggishly. "I-I'm gonna throw up."

The nurse gets a plastic bag and holds it in front of him while Dad and Gilbert comb his hair back and rub his back. He loses what fluids he's had and dry heaves, abdomen seizing and convulsing from the effort. Is he dying?

"Oh, kid," Gilbert frowns, giving him a pitying look. "You're not making this easy on us, huh? Arthur, there's all of our potassium."

Dad tsks. "He needs to get everything intravenously for now. We'll keep him NPO."

"NPO?" Alfred asks as the nurse takes the bag away and wipes at his face with a small towel. "What's that?"

" _Nil per os_ ," Gilbert clarifies in a funny-sounding accent, pressing on his chest to get him to lie down again. "It's a bunch of Latin mumbo-jumbo that basically means no more eating or drinking for you, until you stop throwing up all of the goods. No more pills or syrups either. You're strictly getting your fluids and meds through IV only now, so let's get you more potassium and some different insulin."

Alfred tries to tell himself not to start crying again, but it's hard. "Everything hurts," he whimpers, and the nurse, Gilbert, and Dad all blink down at him helplessly. "It's not getting better."

"It will soon," Dad promises. "We just have to find the right medication for you, and sometimes, that takes some trial and error."

Alfred groans and suddenly reaches both of his arms out, wanting Dad nearby. Thankfully, his father obliges and scoots next to him on the bed with a fond smile.

"Here, why don't we watch a movie together?" Dad suggests, changing the channel on the T.V. again. He shrugs out of his white coat and chucks it over the back of the chair a few feet away, getting comfortable, and Gilbert and the nurse let them have a moment to themselves, sauntering out of the room once more.

Alfred cuddles closer to Dad and sets his head on his chest, emotionally exhausted. He looks up at him and says, "I don't like it here."

He can feel the tremor in Dad's chest as he laughs quietly and murmurs, "I know, love. No one enjoys being ill and in the hospital, but we'll have to make the best of it, yes?"

"I guess… Hey, I can hear your heartbeat."

Dad takes his stethoscope off from its place around his neck, puts the buds in Alfred's ears, and says, "Try listening now."

Concentrating, Alfred puts the diaphragm on Dad's chest and grins, "Whoa... Cool!"

"How does it sound? Am I going to live?"

"Hmm… I don't know. We're gonna have to operate," Alfred jokes before moving the stethoscope to his own chest and listening.

From the window, he can see Gilbert passing by, and the man stops and waves at them enthusiastically, a toothy smile stretching across his face from ear-to-ear.

* * *

"How's he doing?"

"We just started him on the new insulin, and he's doing well on it for now. You can come in to see him, but he's feeling a bit drowsy and irritable."

Papa and Matthew trek after Dad and follow him into Alfred's hospital room, and Matthew has to mentally brace himself before he walks in, not sure what to expect.

Fortunately, the sight isn't too daunting. Alfred's lying still, eyes drooping, and although he has remained pale and clammy, he's well enough to greet them by saying, "Hey, guys."

Matthew goes up to him first with a handful of balloons and a cheerful card made out of construction paper. "I got this for you."

"Thanks, Matt," his brother responds, taking the card with a tiny smile. He flips it open, reads the short inscription that says to get well soon and not be sad, and then places the card on the bedside table. It brightens up the room a little, and it serves as a stark contrast between the toothpaste colored walls and floor tiles.

Dad takes the balloons and sets them free in the corner, and then, Papa reaches the bed next and worriedly kisses Alfred's temple, asking, "How are you feeling, _mon petit chou_?"

"A little better."

"That's good news. I was going to bring you some soup, but I heard you aren't allowed to have anything to eat for now, so I'll bring it later, okay?"

Alfred nods and sinks into one of Papa's welcome hugs. It makes him wish he was home even more. He misses his bed, and his toys, and Papa's singing when he makes dinner. "Thank you."

"Of course. We've all been so worried about you… Arthur, would you stop pacing back and forth? You're playing with my nerves."

Dad pauses in the middle of the room and frowns, as though just realizing what he was doing. "Sorry."

Papa shakes his head and glowers. "Have you had anything to eat since this morning?"

"Who? Me?" Dad asks, caught off guard by the question.

"Yes, you. It's time for a break. Mathieu and I will watch over Alfred for now. It's seven o'clock in the evening, and you still haven't had anything for dinner."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I—"

"No, you're not," Alfred's nurse cuts in, taking Papa's side as she arrives to check Alfred's blood sugar again, and Alfred must be getting used to her presence, because he doesn't recoil at the mere sight of her anymore.

Dad gives the nurse a woeful glare and scoffs. He has argued with many nurses in his time, and he hasn't won yet. "All right. I'll be back in thirty minutes," he says gruffly before stalking away.

The nurse smiles triumphantly and coaxes Alfred to accept another round of poking from the evil pen he's become all-too-familiar with. She distracts him from the pain by striking a conversation with him. "You know, I have a daughter that's around your age," she remarks as Alfred flinches from the needle. "What grade are you in?"

"Third."

"Oh, you're a big boy. My daughter is still a second-grader," she continues, glancing momentarily at Matthew. "Are you and your brother twins?"

"Yup."

"That's what I thought. He looks just like you."

"Well, I'm the better looking one, but yeah," Alfred says with a devilish smirk.

Matthew narrows his eyes and raises his chin, offended. After all of the hard work he went through to ensure Alfred's recovery, he's still being treated like this by his ungrateful sibling? "Hey, that's not true."

The nurse laughs and writes down Alfred's blood sugar on his chart. "I think you're both very handsome young boys," she assures, exchanging a cheerful expression with Papa. "So, what is Santa bringing you two for Christmas?"

"Santa has spent enough money on toys this year," Papa says under his breath.

"I want a racecar—a big red one," Alfred says with an important air. "I know Santa isn't real, but—"

The nurse raises her brows and widens her eyes. "What are you talking about? Of course, he's real."

Both Alfred and Matthew are astonished by this claim. Although they always insist they're too old to believe in Santa, there's a little inkling of hope still dormant inside of them, wanting to believe in such childish magic.

But Alfred quickly dismisses the idea and the previous twinkle in his eyes fades. "Even if he was real, he's not going to find me now, 'cause I'm in the hospital and stuff…"

"Don't worry. Santa has a way of always knowing where to find the boys and girls of the world," the nurse soothes before taking Alfred's temperature and blood pressure for the umpteenth time. Then, she lets him be and returns to her post at the desk outside.

Santa has a way of always knowing, Matthew mentally repeats to himself, hoping this is true. With only six days left until Christmas, this whole impromptu hospital stay could really do away with all of their holiday plans, and he's crossing his fingers that Alfred gets to come home before then.

As punctual as ever, Dad returns a minute ahead of time, and Matthew can tell how relieved he is to see Alfred hasn't experienced any complications or medical anomalies while he was away. He goes over to Papa and chats with him for a while, and Matthew takes the chance to update Alfred on everything that happened in school today. Mr. Braginski has given them a reading to do over the winter break and a book report, but it's beginning to look like Alfred won't have to do it. Feliks contracted pinkeye during lunch and had to be sent home early. Oh, and there's reportedly a ghost in the art classroom because a fifth grader told the entire student population he saw a shadow by the supply cabinets during a lesson on cubism.

And suddenly, it's nine o'clock, which marks the end of visiting hours.

"Am I gonna be here alone?" Alfred asks, panicking as he sees Matthew and Papa getting dressed.

Dad shakes his head and says, "Don't worry, I'll be here. One parent is allowed to stay."

"Arthur," Papa interrupts, clasping a hand around Dad's arm. "Tomorrow night, we'll switch, and I'll stay."

Dad doesn't look entirely happy with the idea, but he nods anyway. "All right."

Matthew lets Papa guide him toward the door, but before they go, they stop and say their goodbyes to Dad and Al. Papa kisses Dad first, then he pecks Alfred's head and smooths out the blankets covering him up.

"Rest well, Alfred, and feel better for Papa tomorrow, okay, _mon chaton_?"

Alfred dips his head in agreement, on the brink of dozing off. He rolls onto his side and pulls one of his pillows close to his chest, hugging it. "Bye."

"And Arthur, don't overwork yourself, please."

"Yes, yes," Dad replies peevishly before stooping down to give Matthew a goodbye hug and kiss. "Have a good night, my boy."

Sheepish, Matthew bites his tongue and mumbles, "Can I visit Al again tomorrow?"

"Of course you can, poppet. I'm sure Alfred will appreciate the company."

"Okay."

Papa takes him by the hand again and leads him away, and Matthew sorrowfully looks over his shoulder, waving goodbye to his brother and hoping that if Santa is real, he'll somehow make this Christmas a good one.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note** : Hey, guys! So I thought this was going to be three chapters in length, but we've still got quite a way to go, so we'll just keep rolling with it and see where we end up! Thanks so much for all of the lovely reviews!

Also, quick disclaimer, I'm not a licensed medical professional, and as such, don't try any of this at home and don't try to diagnose yourself or someone else. Please see a real doctor—most of them are very nice people and will gladly answer all of your concerns!

* * *

Ahh, the night-shift.

New assignments are given, the lights are dimmed, and a peaceful lull washes over the entire unit. If it weren't for the stupid cardiac monitor to Alfred's right, he'd already be asleep, but alas, now that the TV's off and it's relatively quiet, there's nothing to ward off the persistent trilling sound beating against his eardrums.

To make matters worse, Gilbert comes traipsing into the room to tell Dad in a hushed tone, "I'll be back bright and early. Carriedo's got the next shift, so he'll be checking in on the kid."

Dad's voice is low, but he still manages to pull off a formidable growl, "Really? Carriedo?"

"Look, I know he's not the most… detail-oriented pediatrician here, but he's got a pretty good bedside manner."

"I don't give a damn about his bedside manner as long as he's able to give Alfred the proper care he needs."

"I knew you were going to say that, so I've got Vargas assigned to him, too—for backup purposes."

For a second, Dad loses his last thread of patience and shouts, "You're leaving my son in the hands of two _imbeciles_?"

"Shh!" Gilbert hisses, glancing anxiously over at Alfred, who is now wide awake and has entirely given up on sleeping. "They're all I've got right now, okay? It's only for a few hours. Plus, you'll be here to watch them, so I know you won't let them do anything stupid. They're doing their rounds, so they'll be in here soon. Try not to kill them before I come back, got it?"

"That's a promise I can't make."

"Arthur, come on. Don't do this to me."

Dad fumes for another moment and snarls, "Fine, but don't expect me to be civil toward them."

"Sure, sure, you don't have to make friends with everyone," Gilbert says softly before sweeping over to Alfred with a gleaming grin. "Go to sleep, kid. I'll check on you in the morning, and you'd better be feeling all better by the time I'm back. Make sure Daddy doesn't strangle anybody, 'kay? Oh, wait! I almost forgot I have something for you! Don't go anywhere!"

Alfred blearily watches Gilbert zip out of the room and come back a moment later with something hidden behind his back.

"It's not another shot, right?" Alfred asks, leering warily at Gilbert.

Gilbert laughs and tilts his head to the side, as jolly and high-spirited as ever. "Aww, no, kid. Sorry to disappoint, but no more shots for now. I've got something even better."

He produces a twelve-inch teddy bear with cream-colored fur and smiling brown eyes and brandishes it in front of him. "This is Sir William Cornelius Gilbear but you can call him Gilbear for short. You see, I've got a little problem… He told me he wasn't feeling well today, but I don't have a bed ready for him right now, and somebody needs to take care of him for me. Can I trust you to do it?"

Playing along, Alfred takes the bear from Gilbert's hands and replies with an animated, "Sure!"

"Thanks, I knew I could count on you. Make sure you both get lots of rest," Gilbert murmurs, mouth twitching into a lopsided smile. "Well, I guess that's it. _Guten nacht_!"

Gilbert officially clocks out for the night, and Dad returns to the chair he's been inhabiting by Alfred's bed for a number of hours now. It becomes clear that it's going to be a restless and insomnia-ridden night for both of them, since Dad's not going to fall asleep in the uncomfortable wooden chair until he's thoroughly fatigued, and Alfred is too anxious and bothered by the cardiac monitor to let himself dream.

Much to his displeasure, however, it looks as if Dad's going to make him get some rest whether he wants to or not. His father cups a warm hand around the side of his head a few minutes after Gilbert's departure and says, "Alfred, I know it's difficult, but close your eyes and try to sleep. You won't recover if you stay up all night, and I don't want to have to tell Dr. Beilschmidt you weren't following his orders."

It's an empty threat, but Alfred finds himself believing it anyway. He bats his eyelids a few times and then closes them, sucking in a deep breath to calm himself. It'd be easier to sleep if he didn't have so many thoughts running through his head.

"There we are," Dad croons, helping to fluff one of Alfred's pillows. "Rest. You've had a trying day."

It almost works, until some not entirely unexpected visitors come clamoring into the room, disrupting them. Dad lets out the tiniest of groans and gets up to reluctantly greet the trespassers, shaking their hands with obligatory politeness before protectively gluing himself back to Alfred's side.

"W-What's going on?" Alfred mumbles, snuggling his nose into Gilbear's snout.

One of the visitors, a man with dark hair and a relaxed gait introduces himself first. "Hello, _cariño_. What a cute boy you are! I'm Dr. Carriedo, and this is Dr. Vargas."

Dr. Vargas is the antithesis of Dr. Carriedo. His eyes are cold and obstinate, his posture is straight and taut, and his brows are drawn in a never-ending expression of displeasure. It's a little scary just having to peek over at him from behind Gilbear, so Alfred sinks lower into the bed and squeaks a half-hearted retort of, "I'm not cute!"

"Yes, you are!" Dr. Carriedo says gallantly, pinching Alfred's cheek. "We're just going to examine you for a few minutes, and then you can go back to resting, _bueno_?"

But Alfred hastily decides he doesn't want anything to do with these men. Involuntarily, he wiggles closer to the edge of the bed to close the gap between himself and Dad's chair, and he squeezes Gilbear with all of his might. Having his cheeks pinched is the last straw. It's where he has drawn a line in the sand.

"It's okay, my boy," Dad murmurs, rubbing his shoulder to calm him. "Let them have a look at you."

Before he can protest further, Dr. Carriedo pulls up his hospital gown and presses an icy stethoscope to his chest, causing a shiver to run down his spine. This sets Alfred's already frazzled and fragile mind into a tailspin, and he bursts into tears, wishing to be left alone already. He's been bothered by enough doctors and nurses today.

"Great, you bastard, you made him cry," Dr. Vargas snaps from the other end of the room, and Alfred sees Dad glare at him for using a bad word.

"It's okay, love. Be a good patient," Dad says, but it doesn't do any good.

Alfred can't be a good patient. It's against his nature. He's been surprisingly cooperative up to this point, all things considered, and just as he was warming up to having Gilbert care for him, now he's expected to acclimate to these strangers?

Dr. Carriedo tries to soothe him by mussing up his hair and remarks, "I don't bite—that's Dr. Vargas' job. I just want you to do one more thing for me. Just open your mouth and say 'ahh,' okay?"

Hiccupping, Alfred swipes at his tears and opens his mouth as asked, hoping this really is the last instruction. He's cranky, he hasn't been able to get any sleep, and it's already nearing eleven o'clock. It's no wonder he keeps feeling an incessant desire to cry.

When Dr. Carriedo is satisfied, Alfred closes his mouth and lies back, clutching Gilbear for safety again. He almost allows himself to internally celebrate as Dr. Carriedo and Dr. Vargas step away from him, but then his body decides to do something awful again.

His left leg flares up in red-hot pain that shoots all the way up from his toes to his thigh. It's so bad and sudden that he writhes in bed, screaming, and Dr. Carriedo jumps back in surprise.

Dad is upon him in less than a second, eyes roving over him and trying to figure out the problem. He yanks the bedsheets back and frowns when he sees Alfred clawing at his leg, trying to rid himself of the pain.

"Well, don't just stand there! Bring some pain medication!" Dad shouts at Carriedo and Vargas before switching off Alfred's insulin drip for the second time that day. "And for God's sake, get him some potassium."

His leg feels as though it's about to ignite, and when Dad tries to massage the sore limb, Alfred lets out a strangled yelp. It's like someone is sawing through his bones, and he tries to pull away from Dad's kneading fingers to no avail. Seconds turn into minutes, and suddenly, everything hurts marginally less. He stops screaming and squeezes Dad's wrist instead, and slowly, the leg cramp loses its fervor and dissipates in intensity.

"Okay, okay," Dad mutters, a bit shaken. "I'm going to do a few tests to make sure the pain was caused by a potassium deficiency and not neuropathy."

Alfred doesn't like the sound of this whole testing business. He absolutely refuses to peacefully accept another shot.

Dad somehow reads his mind and says, "It won't hurt."

"What's n-neuropathy?" he asks, wanting to know more before agreeing to proceed. Maybe Dad's trying to trick him into complacency, and maybe it's going to hurt a lot, but he's trying not to scare him.

"In your case, it refers to nerve damage caused by high blood sugar," Dad explains, shooting daggers at Dr. Carriedo with his eyes when he sees the man walk in with Alfred's pain medication in a plastic cup. It's some kind of goopy syrup, and Dad whirls on him immediately. "What are you doing? He's NPO, you can't give him that."

"That's what I told him," Dr. Vargas pipes in with an I-told-you-so expression.

Dr. Carriedo frowns. "No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did. Twice."

"Well, you must have said it to yourself because I didn't hear you."

"Just like you don't hear anything I ever say, idiot. Here, let me take care of the rugrat," Dr. Vargas remarks bitingly, and Alfred sends Dad a pleading look, hoping he won't allow this aggressive man anywhere near him. A shot from him would _definitely_ hurt.

Thankfully, Dad's got his back. "That's all right. I can handle this on my own, just get me a monofilament instrument, please."

Dr. Carriedo, foolish man, is brazen enough to say, "With all due respect, sir, we're the licensed pediatricians on this unit—"

"Yes," Dad growls, stopping him mid-lecture, "and you're also both incredibly dangerous and can kindly keep your distance from my son at the moment by removing yourselves from the room and getting me a bloody monofilament."

Now Dr. Vargas becomes defensive, pouncing on the opportunity to argue. "What gives you the authority to think you can make the decisions here?"

"Lovino, that's not the way to speak to a patient's family member!" Dr. Carriedo exclaims, horrified.

"He's not letting us do our jobs, Antonio!"

"You don't know how to do your sodding jobs!"

"Gentlemen, please!" the night nurse interrupts, storming into the room and planting herself between Dad and the troublesome doctors. "There are _children_ trying to sleep, and this kind of behavior is unacceptable. You should all know better! Do I need to file an incident report?"

"Yes, file a report," Dad replies, still heated. "Let the record show how utterly useless these dimwitted excuses for—!"

"Dr. Kirkland! That's _enough_. Thank you," the nurse says, hands on her hips. "By allowing Alfred to be admitted into this hospital, you have given consent for him to be treated by the physicians assigned to his care."

"I understand, however—"

"That said, Dr. Carriedo and Dr. Vargas are needed down the hall," the nurse announces, not giving Dad the opportunity to finish his rant. She shoos the bumbling pair of doctors out, and once they're gone, she looks at Dad, frowns, and adds, "Be nice. I'll get you your 'bloody' monofilament."

"Thank you, that's all I ask," Dad grumbles, losing his ire.

Alfred snickers at his expense and _oohs_. "You got in trouble."

This gets Dad to wrinkle his nose in annoyance, but then he sees the whimsical spark in Alfred's eyes and attacks him with a series of tickles, anger all but lost.

"Aaaah! Knock it off," Alfred laughs, kicking and squirming. His leg feels all better now that the cramping has passed, and he's hoping it won't start bugging him again.

The nurse returns with a number of items for Dad, and he takes them with a nod and a courteous word of thanks. It's hard to imagine that a few short moments ago, he was verbally assaulting pediatricians. He lays out the items on the end of the bed, and tugs up the sheets and blankets so that Alfred's legs and feet are exposed.

"Are you sure it's not going to hurt?" Alfred asks again, double-checking.

"Yes, I'm sure. Don't worry, this test will be fun."

He doesn't want to know what Dad's idea of fun is, but he watches with great interest as Dad lifts his left leg by a couple of inches and palpates his calf and then the sole of his foot. When he's done, he does the same to the other leg, and it's hard to tell whether or not he's happy with his findings or not.

"Okay, now here's the fun part. Close your eyes."

"No! You're gonna give me a shot!"

"No, I'm not."

"Pinkie promise?"

Dad makes an exasperated noise but locks his pinkie finger with Alfred's and shakes it. "All right, now close your eyes like I told you to. What I have here is a monofilament, and it's a small, plastic thread that I'm going to press against your foot."

"So it _is_ going to hurt!" Alfred accuses.

"I must say, I'm quite insulted by how little trust you have in me. This'll be painless. You just have to keep your eyes closed and tell me when you feel the monofilament touching your foot and say where you think it is, okay?"

Alfred nods his head and wraps an arm around Gilbear's waist, just to be on the safe side.

"Are you ready?"

"Uh-huh."

Something prickly touches his big toe, and Alfred recoils at once. "Hey, that kinda tickles!"

"Hold still. Where did you feel the thread?"

"On my big toe."

"Good," Dad says and then he moves the thread and presses it in a different spot. "And now?"

"The toe before my pinkie-toe."

They do this a few more times, with Dad poking different parts of his foot, until finally, it's over and Dad concludes, "Your nerves are fine, so your potassium must have dropped. The nurse will start another drip and then switch you to the insulin again. Hopefully, that'll prevent any more pain from returning to your leg."

"Okay. That test wasn't fun."

Dad gives him a flat look and says, "Go to sleep, lad, or Dr. Beilschmidt will order twice as many shots tomorrow."

"No, he won't!"

"He just might," Dad teases, pressing a loving kiss to the center of Alfred's forehead. "You need your rest."

"Can you lie down next to me?"

"After I get your medications in order and make sure Carriedo and Vargas don't come in here again. Don't hesitate to let me know if you feel worse at any point in the night, understood?"

"Mmm-hmm," Alfred warbles, forcing his mind to ignore the cardiac monitor and settle into a gentle sleep.

* * *

The clock on the wall reads that it's just after seven in the morning when Alfred wakes to the feeling of someone moving his IV line. Unsurprisingly, it's Gilbert, and when their gazes meet, the man brings a finger up to his mouth and makes a shushing gesture, pointing to the other side of the bed.

Alfred rolls his head to the left and sees Dad slumbering next to him, mouth hanging open slightly. He's got an arm coiled around his middle, trapping him in an ungraceful hug, and there are some fairly pronounced purple-bluish circles under his eyes.

"Don't worry, I took a picture already," Gilbert whispers, leaning close to Alfred's ear. "You two were pretty cute, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity… How're you feeling?"

"My stomach hurts again."

"Hmm, well, your blood sugar was starting to drop when the nurse checked it last night, so that's a good sign. It's going to take another few days for it to go completely back to normal. Diabetes doesn't like to cooperate sometimes… I see you've been taking good care of Gilbear though."

Alfred nods. "He said he's feeling better and wants to go home."

"Did he now?" Gilbert asks with a little pout. "He still looks pretty sick to me, so he's gonna have to stick around."

"But I'm—I mean Gilbear—says that it's almost Christmas, and he wants to be home, so he can get his presents."

"Sorry, kid. I would send you—I mean Gilbear—home in a heartbeat if I could, but nobody leaves this hospital until I'm sure they're a hundred percent better," Gilbert decides, leaving no room for argument or protest. "Just think how much it would suck if I let Gilbear go back to his daily life, and then he got even sicker than he was before because he didn't get all of the help and rest he needed."

Alfred sighs and surrenders for now. "Okay…"

Dad begins to rouse, mumbling something indistinguishable before peeling his eyes open and taking in a sharp breath. He squints against the light, removes his arm from its resting spot around Alfred's torso, and sits up, groaning at a crick in his neck and a soreness in his back from having slept in a bad position.

"Rise and shine, honey-bunches," Gilbert mocks him. "I've got some coffee with your name on it back at my desk, still hot."

Dad grunts, "Have I ever told you how much I loathe you?"

"Oh, plenty of times, but that won't ever stop my love for you. Nothing can keep us apart. I heard you caused Carriedo and Vargas some trouble last night after all."

"They were the ones causing me trouble."

"Sure they were," Gilbert chuckles, setting his stethoscope on Alfred's back. "You know the drill, kiddo. Take a deep breath for me. Did we have any problems last night that I should know about?"

Dad rises to his feet, curses his aching spine, and says, "He had some leg pain."

"Which leg?"

"Left."

"Did Carriedo or Vargas do a monofilament test?"

"No, but I did the monofilament test. No signs of neuropathy. We increased his potassium intake again, and it seems to have helped. He was switched to insulin at three in the morning," Dad clarifies, stretching.

Gilbert gives Dad a chiding look and says disbelievingly, "You stayed up until three in the morning?"

"No…"

"Kirkland, I can tell when you're lying. Alfred lies the same way you do—his eyebrows twitch a little."

"I stayed up until four to make sure he was all right on the insulin and wasn't experiencing any pain."

It appears like Gilbert is going to swear, but he stops himself at the last second, remembering Alfred's presence, "You're a big stupid-pants-jerk-face!" he shouts nonsensically. "That's what the nurse is for, you know! She sits behind that desk until the end of the shift to take care of that kind of stuff. You don't have to micromanage everything! Now you're running on like—what? Three hours of sleep? If you collapse on me, I'm not saving you. You can lie on this germ-infested floor. The nurse won't help you either. Her union doesn't require it."

"Oh, hush, it's fine," Dad says, waving off the concern. "Alfred is more important at the moment. Any updates?"

Gilbert drums his fingers on the IV pole and says, "You can change the subject for now, but don't think I'm going to forget about this. I've got a great memory… Anyway, our kiddo's sugar is lower than it was, but definitely not out of the danger zone yet. He's complaining of some belly pain, so I'll get him some meds for that. The monitor's showing he's also just a teeny bit tachycardic this morning, but that's just the elevated glucose messing with his system again. Wouldn't be surprised if he ends up a little grouchier today than yesterday. We're keeping him NPO and on strict bed rest because he's proven to me he's full of surprises, and I don't want to take any chances. The second I let him stand up, he's gonna find a reason to fall over."

"I have to pee!" Alfred informs them.

" _Ja_ , I know. You're peeing every gosh-darned second and getting rid of all of my hard work to get your bloodwork back to normal," Gilbert scolds him harmlessly. "You're gonna keep using the bedpan because there's no way I'm letting you walk to the bathroom and fall in the toilet or something."

"I won't fall in the toilet!"

"You might. You'll be dizzy and won't even realize it's happening. Now, here's the game plan," Gilbert says, going through his mental checklist. "Meds first, and then, Kirkland, you're gonna have some breakfast along with coffee because breakfast is the most important meal of the day. After that, we'll check back in on the kid's sugar, and maybe, if everything goes well, we can take him off NPO and get him to eat something small by tonight, but we'll see. Are you still nauseous, Al?"

"Uh-huh," Alfred says, holding his stomach.

"Great. All right, we'll take baby steps, then. Help him pee, Kirkland, and while you're at it, save me some more of his urine because I wanna see how we're looking with those ketones again."

Dad smiles dryly and jokes, "I don't know about you, but I always like to start my morning by collecting a urine sample."

"That's why I like you, Arthur, you're dedicated to the cause."

And so, the morning passes by in an uneventful fashion. Alfred empties his perpetually full bladder and watches talk shows on TV, and Dad leaves him for only about fifteen minutes to hand off the sample and grab something from the cafeteria. It's horrifically boring, and the longer Alfred stays in bed, the more restless he feels. If he could only stretch his legs for a minute or two…

Eventually, Dad comes back with a large cup of coffee, some drawing paper, and a small box of crayons, looking fairly more alert than he was a short while ago. He pulls what should have been Alfred's food tray if he'd been permitted to eat over the bed and places the paper and crayons on top of it. "That's to keep you busy," he says.

"Thanks," Alfred replies, and he means it. He's almost been bored to tears, and he happily pulls a blue crayon out and starts doodling away, only pausing every once in a while to listen in on some of the conversations between the doctors and nurses as they pass by his room. "Am I really going to have to stay here until Christmas, Dad?"

"We'll see. Maybe you'll be all better by then, but we can't rush it, okay? Your body knows how much time it needs."

Time seems to move so slowly when he's sick. Every time Alfred thinks an hour must have gone by, he'll look up at the clock on the wall and realize it's only been twenty minutes. It's an arduous kind of mental battle, and he would do anything just to get a moment of fresh air or take a stroll down the hall. He'd even answer Mr. Braginski's math questions.

And speaking of Mr. Braginski, Alfred gets a nasty surprise that following afternoon, because right after getting his blood sugar checked for the millionth time, Gilbert tells him he has some visitors. He doesn't think much of it, and he tries to greet Papa and Matthew with a rehearsed smile on his face when he sees them, even though he's still feeling crummy.

It's the person behind Papa and Matthew that makes Alfred almost vomit right then and there. In all of his glory, Mr. Braginski comes into the room and shakes Dad's hand, saying hello and apologizing for not having been able to pay a visit sooner.

Who invited him? Who was crazy enough to tell the man what hospital to come to and what room number to look for?

Alfred clings to Gilbear and gulps, mortified.

"Hello, Alfred. I'm sorry you haven't been feeling well. The class has missed you," Mr. Braginski suddenly says, turning to him and patting his foot with one of his giant hands.

For the first time in possibly the entirety of his life, Alfred is rendered speechless. He gapes and gawks at his teacher, opening his mouth to say something but failing.

"He's groggy from the medication," Dad notes, shooting Alfred an amused smile. "Being the dedicated student he is, Alfred has asked me about the assignments he has been missing—"

"Oh, he doesn't have to worry about them," Mr. Braginski assures, ruffling Alfred's hair. "His health is more important, _da_? There's something the class wanted me to give you."

The Russian teacher takes a folder out of his briefcase, reaches inside, and offers Alfred a stack of get-well cards, one from each of his classmates.

Alfred takes a moment to be touched, running a hand over the waxy surface of one of the handmade cards. It's so… sweet. The insulin must be messing with his head because before he can stop himself, he's crying big, sappy tears and feeling sentimental, and warm, and so loved it hurts.

Mr. Braginski looks over at Dad and Papa, wondering if he's said something to upset Alfred, but they just shake their heads and assure him it's not his fault until finally, Alfred opens his trembling mouth and blubbers, "T-Thank you."

Mr. Braginski smiles at him and squeezes the hand that doesn't have the IV in it. "It was Matthew's idea."

Alfred sloppily pats at his wet face and splutters another word of thanks at Mattie, who just nods his head. That kid's up to something. "Mr. Braginski, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, little one."

"W-What's the KGB?"

"And why would you want to know the answer to such a question?"

"I-I dunno," Alfred lies, biting his lip. "I just heard—"

Mr. Braginski chuckles, "Feliks really does tell some of the most interesting stories I've ever heard. He should consider a career in writing someday."

"S-So, you're not—?" Alfred mumbles, not able to finish his question without feeling silly.

"No, I'm not a member of the KGB."

"Oh, okay… Good. Can I ask you something else?"

"Yes, you may."

Alfred can't believe what he's about to say. He ignores the smug look on Matthew's face, steels himself, and boyishly asks, "Can I give you a hug?"

Dad and Papa beam proud smiles at him, and then, without even responding, Mr. Braginski holds out his arms and lightly embraces Alfred, minding all of the cords and wires attached to his body. Despite the man's enormous size and overall intimidating demeanor, Alfred suddenly isn't the least bit afraid of him, and he buries his head in his teacher's waist, promising he'll calculate all of the decimals in the world if it'll get him out of this bed.

"But I am, in fact, a vampire," Mr. Braginski says, sounding completely serious.

Alfred flinches, quickly pulls away from the hug, and asks, "Really?"

" _Nyet_."

"You're the worst," Alfred huffs, but a moment later, he hugs the man once more for good measure.


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. Braginski is a fine fellow.

That's what Papa and Dad say once the ex-vampire, ex-KGB, Russian teacher departs after his sudden visit. He manages to leave a good impression, considering how Papa raves on and on about how kind of a man he is for going to such great lengths to ensure the wellbeing of a student. Dad, on the other hand, comments about how lovely it is to see a teacher full of such passion, dedication, and command for the skills often required to be a role model for young minds.

Alfred thinks the praise is pretty overrated, but even he must admit he can appreciate the apparent heart his teacher has, something which he vehemently tried to deny until recently.

"Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you invite Mr. B here?" Alfred asks, addressing the important detail everyone seems keen to overlook.

"He wanted to come," Matt replies, not bothering to elaborate or say even one more word on the issue.

Alfred wishes he could get inside of his brother's head and use some kind of telepathic, mind-reading twin powers, but, unfortunately for him, he has yet to harness such abilities. Therefore, he'll let Matthew harbor some secrets for now. The investigation can wait, and the truth will come out eventually, even if Alfred has to wrestle it out of him.

His thoughts wander from Matthew to Papa and Dad when he hears the two having one of their notorious mini-arguments just outside of the room. He listens with intrigue, and Matthew, being a loyal partner in crime, joins in and scoots his chair closer and closer to the doorway.

"He will be fine without you for one night, Arthur."

"No, he won't be. You haven't met the horrid night-shift physicians."

Papa sighs. "Please, _mon amour_. You are exhausted, and don't try to convince me otherwise. You need to go home, have a full meal, a shower, and a night's rest."

"But Alfred—"

Sensing trouble, Gilbert pops out from around the corner and says, "The kid'll be fine, Kirkland. Don't worry. I've got the best nurse on the unit watching him tonight, and she's going to keep everyone in line."

Dad sputters a series of feeble excuses before finally giving up. "All right. I'll…I'll come back in the morning, but if there's any trouble—"

"You'll be the first to know," Papa assures.

Dad lets out a pained breath, marches back into the room to speak to Alfred himself, and asks, "Are you going to be all right with Papa for tonight, love?"

Truth be told, Alfred would much rather have Dad spend the night with him again, as he feels more secure when he's nearby, but he knows he needs to give his father permission to be off-duty for a little while. It's what Papa and Gilbert would want him to do.

"I'll be okay, Dad."

Dad purses his lips into a straight line and says, "Very well. No more surprises tonight, yes? Be a good lad and listen to the nurse, and if anyone makes you feel uncomfortable or gives you a hard time, have Papa call me."

"I will."

"Good," Dad approves before worriedly stamping a kiss into the matted mess Alfred's hair has become over the course of his illness. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

Dad wraps an arm around Matthew's shoulders, sends Alfred one more look of concern, and leaves with Matt in tow.

* * *

Matthew's got a backup plan if this supposedly real Santa Clause messes up this Christmas. His gifts have already been packaged and wrapped, he's put together some handmade and hand-drawn decorations to brighten up Alfred's hospital room, and he's ready to follow Papa's sugar cookie recipe at a moment's notice to feed his famished brother once he's able to consume solid foods again.

He's also spoken to Gilbert about the potential measures that will have to be taken if Alfred's recovery continues to move at its current snail's pace, and Gilbert has promised to provide some cheery tunes and extra snacks from the hospital's cafeteria. All that's left is to wait and see how things progress from here. Hopefully, his planning will have been for naught, and Alfred will be home for the holidays.

"Matthew, time for bed," Dad suddenly announces, appearing in the doorway with a head of damp locks from his recent hot shower.

There's a gloominess in Dad's eyes, and Matthew latches onto some of his sadness as well, feeling cold.

Dad tucks him in the same way he always does, flicks the nightlight on, and whispers, "Sleep well, my dear boy."

He watches Dad pad away in his bathrobe and slippers, resisting the urge to shout at him to come back so he can hug his father and find some way to bring a twinkle back to his eyes.

It's no use. He knows Dad won't be happy until Alfred is brought home from the hospital, and there's nothing he can say or do to fix things before then.

Admitting defeat to himself, Matthew goes to sleep, but only momentarily. A nagging sense of foreboding racing from his neck to his toes makes him get up. It's an intuition which hasn't been wrong yet, and it tells him to check up on Dad hours later, forcing him out of his dreams.

He disentangles himself out of his cocoon of blankets and his comforter before crossing the hallway to his parents' room. He pauses right at the threshold, hesitates, and quietly pushes open the door with a burst of determination. As he suspected, Dad's awake, even though it's late into the night and way past any reasonable person's bedtime—child or adult.

Dad's flipping through the pages of a novel, but he doesn't seem too interested in the text. He lifts his head despite the puffy bags under his eyes trying to goad him into sleep, and he's totally alert when he sees Matthew come tiptoeing inside.

"Matthew? What on earth are you doing up at this time? Are you feeling unwell?" Dad frets, tossing his book aside to embrace Matthew instead. He pulls him up and into his arms, and a stray hand comes over to grace Matthew's forehead.

"I'm okay... Why aren't you sleeping?" Matthew mumbles, quite drained.

"Oh, poppet," Dad says, carrying him back to his bedroom. "You have school tomorrow."

"T-That's not an answer," Matthew persists, fighting as hard as he possibly can to stay awake. Dad's arms are so warm and the bed seems to be swallowing him up when he gets put back under the blankets against his will.

"Sleep, love."

"No…"

Dad looks puzzled and murmurs, "Shh, it's all right. You had a nightmare, didn't you?"

"Wait…"

Matthew tries desperately to keep his eyes open, but they betray him when he needs them most. By the time he realizes he's fallen asleep at a terrible moment, the sun is glittering through the blinds, and it's already morning.

It takes him a minute or two, but he recalls what happened last night and bolts out of bed, furious at himself for being cast aside so easily.

He finds Dad having a cup of tea and preparing his school lunch in the kitchen. One good look at him, and Matthew can tell he's not in his right mind. He's listless, and his movements are slack as though some heavy weight is dragging him down.

"Dad?"

"Good morning, love," Dad says through a yawn, eyes even puffier than before. He manages to put breakfast on the table, but the toast is burnt and the eggs are too crispy.

Matthew doesn't have the heart to tell him the breakfast isn't edible, and so, he forces himself to take a few repulsive bites, even though his stomach protests the entire time. "Good morning…"

Confronting Dad about his obvious sleep-deprivation problem isn't easy. Matthew tries to say something—to chide him somehow—but he's scared of how Dad will react, especially since his judgment is impaired and his patience is likely paper-thin. After lots of thought and mental rehearsal, he comes up with a seemingly harmless question.

"Did you sleep okay?"

Dad guzzles the last of his tea, clears his throat, and says, "Not quite, but it's no matter… Oh! Is that the time already? Let's hurry and finish up. I need to drop you off at school and then drive to the hospital."

This is a tricky situation. There's no way Dad should be driving in this state, but there's also no way Matthew will dare tell his father he can't do something—no, that's just asking for an argument to take place. He brushes his teeth, grabs his books, and heads out to the car obediently, fearing for the safety of his life as he climbs into the backseat and snaps his seatbelt on with a click.

Dad pretends everything is fine and dandy. He starts the car, backs out of the driveway, and gets on the road while Matthew is on the verge of having a major panic attack. At one stoplight in particular, Dad seems to zone out, and even though the light turns green, he doesn't move the car for a good six seconds, and it's only when a row of cars behind them start honking that he jerks out of his sluggishness and gets Matthew to school, astonishingly enough.

Matthew is delighted when he finally climbs out of the car and is safely on the sidewalk. He accepts a goodbye hug from Dad and crosses his fingers that his father will somehow get to the hospital without causing any road disasters. It's infuriating how Dad dishes out medical advice all of the time but can't take charge of his own health in the slightest.

"Please, be careful," Matthew whispers to himself as he walks toward the front doors of the school, gripping the straps of his backpack as anxiety gnaws on him.

* * *

"Why did the banana go to the doctor? He wasn't peeling well."

Both Alfred and Papa groan at Gilbert's terrible pun as he comes in for the usual rounds and checks Alfred's breathing and heartbeat. The man's jokes are scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point, and he'll soon run out of all comedic material.

"Tough crowd," he pouts before reading the updated chart at the end of the bed. "We're looking much better with that blood sugar of yours, but we've still got a long way to go. Did you get some sleep?"

" _Oui_ , he was asleep by ten o'clock," Papa informs from the trusty, old chair by the bedside.

"Good kiddo," Gilbert praises him, adding an extra note to his chart. "Let's see if we can get some plain food into you today. Ooh, and some of the color's coming back to your face. We're making nice progress."

Alfred gives an enthusiastic nod, and is about to go into a tale about a mystical and strange dream he had last night when suddenly, Dad comes striding through the door with haggard steps and makes quite the entrance, given how ragged he looks.

"How's Alfred?" he asks, green eyes strikingly bright against his sallow face.

Everyone falls silent, flabbergasted in their own ways. Papa's mouth falls open an inch, Gilbert scowls and has a hand on his hip, and Alfred covers Gilbear's eyes so he doesn't have to witness the despondent sight.

Gilbert pounces into action quickly and snarls, " _Kirkland_ , what the _hell_ have you done to yourself?"

"What—?" Dad begins to say, but his brain is too worn out to finish the thought.

"Get over here," Gilbert growls between clenched teeth before forging closer and grabbing Dad by the wrist. He holds him in a vice-grip for a few seconds and lets him go, even more livid than before. "Your pulse is through the roof."

"I-It is?"

Papa gets up from his chair and helps Gilbert double team Dad, forcing him to sit and rest. " _Mon coeur_ , what happened? You were supposed to sleep last night."

"I tried… Couldn't fall asleep," Dad replies lamely, glowering when Gilbert borrows Alfred's pulse oximeter and clamps it onto his index finger instead.

"Your pulse is a _hundred and twenty-six_!" Gilbert scolds him, and Alfred has to admit it's at least a little amusing to see his father on the receiving end of such a lecture. "Sit here and let me check your blood pressure."

"You're overreacting," Dad growls, but Gilbert isn't having any of his excuses or protests today.

Taking zero sass, Gilbert wraps a blood pressure cuff around Dad's arm, readies his stethoscope onto one of his arteries, and says, "Stay still, _dummkopf_."

It takes a minute, but Gilbert's anger only continues to escalate when he gets a result. "You're hypertensive!"

Dad tries to formulate a defense, but now that he's sitting, all of his limbs and muscles have become inert, and it seems like he's having trouble sticking with a train of thought. "It's isolated white coat hypertension."

"Yeah, I don't believe that for a second," Gilbert snorts, whisking the blood pressure cuff away. "You're a mess, you know that? What kind of example are you setting for Alfred by running yourself into the ground like this? You need to sleep, and if your insomniatic head can't get that through its thick skull, I'll gladly dose you up on some OTC sleep aids."

"I don't—"

"Be quiet and follow me. We're gonna take a walk and have a chat."

"I'd rather not."

"You don't have a choice," Gilbert scowls, yanking on Dad's arm before hauling him out the door and leaving Alfred and Papa to stay behind in the solitary silence that follows.

"Don't worry, _mon chou_ ," Papa says with a light-hearted smile. "Your father is just being his usual self, _non_?"

It's true. This isn't the first time Alfred has seen Dad neglect his own needs. He has a habit of swamping himself with more responsibilities than a single person should ever be held accountable for, and he insists on having things done his way and his way only. Fortunately, Gilbert seems well-versed in Dad's fixation on control, and he should be able to get him to relent somewhat.

In fact, they don't see Dad again for around three hours, and Gilbert only comes in briefly to say he's confined him to the lounge to sleep for a while, and he's strictly forbidden to get up until he takes a sufficiently long enough nap. It explains why Dad returns in the late afternoon looking a tad more refreshed and not quite as zombie-esque.

"I hope you've learned your lesson," Gilbert says once Dad has been granted access into Alfred's room again. He's given a dreary grumble of a response, to which he adds, "I'll take that to mean yes."

Papa and Dad switch duties again, and Papa is the one to go home with Matthew for another winter night as the calendar nears Christmas little by little. Under the ceaseless nagging of Papa and Gilbert, Dad begins to take more of an interest in maintaining his own wellbeing and sanity, but by the time Christmas Eve arrives, they all end up tired anyway, craving to go back to ordinary life. Even Gilbert seems a little downtrodden. His eyes are a little glazed over, and his voice is deeper than usual.

"You wanted me to spend more time with the boys, but I imagine this isn't what you had in mind," Dad remarks dryly over the phone with Papa on Christmas Eve, still sitting dutifully in the creaky wooden chair by Alfred's bed.

The one piece of good news is that Alfred has finally been able to hold down some food, albeit not much. Other than a perpetual queasy feeling in his gut, he feels exceptionally better, and he thinks that if maybe he proves to Gilbert how much better he's physically doing, then he'll be allowed to go home Christmas morning.

It's his last ditch effort, and he waits until Dad steps out to go to the bathroom to put his plan into motion. He twists his body around, crawls on his belly to the edge of the bed and puts one foot down to test his strength first.

"Alfred!" his nurse yells at him from her desk. "Don't even think about it."

He hunches his shoulders and frowns. He's not a baby. They don't have to keep watching him like this, and what's the harm in just taking a few steps around the room? Gilbert said himself that his blood sugar is beginning to go down, so he must be doing better, right?

He plants a second defiant foot on the ground, and the nurse gets up from her desk. Before she can stop him, he takes a big step forward but forgets about the IV in his arm and hisses when he feels it move from where it's lodged in his hand. Then, his feet decide to give out on him, and he buckles, bracing himself on the edge of bed.

"Alfred, what did I say?" the nurse barks at him, pulling him up and into bed again. She checks him over for any injuries, and narrows her eyes at his hand. "Your IV is infiltrated now. It's going to have to be replaced. Just wait until your father and Dr. Beilschmidt hear about this."

Oh, God. Does this mean he has to go through the torture of having a needle jabbed into his skin to get a new IV? He tears up at the mere thought, and begs the nurse, "Please, don't tell them."

"I have to, Alfred. Here, let me take this one out for now, and I'll put in a new—"

"No!" he howls, hiding his hand underneath a pillow.

"Sweetie, I can't leave it like that. You need to get your medication and fluids, and you can't get them with the IV you have now. Let me see it."

"Noooo!"

"What's the trouble in here?" Dad asks as he returns with a large cup of coffee. Gilbert is trailing right behind him, just as confused and curious.

"Someone decided it would be a good idea to wander out of bed," the nurse tattles on him. What a traitor.

Gilbert dramatically brings a hand to his heart and gasps, "What? After all of our work to make you better, you've decided to start rebelling? Kid, if I have to superglue you to that bed, I will."

"Dr. Beilschmidt gave you clear instructions to stay in bed, young man. What were you thinking?" Dad adds, setting down his cup of coffee on the night table and pursing his lips into a stern, thin line.

"I was bored and just wanted to get up for a second," Alfred explains in his defense, feeling profoundly aggravated. "I've been lying down since I got here!"

Dad glowers and says, "For good reason. You're in no condition to be up and about."

"His IV is infiltrated," the nurse mentions, adding insult to injury. "He won't allow me to fix it."

Dad and Gilbert sigh at one another, and then Dad says, "All right. I'll do it. Show me it, Alfred."

"No!" Alfred screeches, not caring how childish he's being. He wants to go home. He's been here way too long as is, and now he's certain he's being kept here as punishment. He burrows his head in the cozy depths of Gilbear's plush waist and kicks his legs out in protest when he feels Dad attempt to get him to roll over.

"Alfred, you're too old for tantrums," Dad tells him, aiming for his ego. "This is not how a boy of your age should be behaving. Dr. Beilschmidt is working relentlessly to help in your recovery, and this certainly isn't the right way to repay him for his efforts. I understand that you're upset, but we can talk about it like adults or you can lie there and mope. Either way, your IV is going to be replaced."

"It's just the blood sugar talking," Gilbert hypothesizes, momentarily turning his head to cough into the crook of his arm as something scratches his throat. "He's moody."

"I'm not moody," Alfred whines, but it's clear no one believes him. "I feel better."

"Really, now? Seems to me like healthy kiddos aren't supposed to fall when they try to walk," Gilbert says sternly, and it's the first time Alfred feels like the man is genuinely disappointed in him. He can't bear the thought of Gilbert not being friendly toward him anymore, and so, he sniffles, swallows the obstinate words hanging off the end of his tongue, and rolls over onto his back.

Dad immediately gets to work on his hand. He tears away the medical tape holding the old IV catheter in place as gently as he can, takes everything apart, and puts a bandage over the little mark left in its place. "We'll put the new one in your other hand this time, all right? This hand has been through enough."

Alfred doesn't say anything. He just sniffles and blinks back the wall of tears coating his eyes as Dad disinfects a patch of his skin and opens the packaging of a needle.

Gilbert meanwhile perches himself on the edge of the bed with another muffled cough and says, "Now's a good time to talk to you about how things are going to be different from now on."

"Different?" Alfred asks, biting his lip.

"Yeah. Do you know what it means when someone is diabetic, kid? It means your pancreas likes to be annoying and doesn't want to make as much insulin as it should. It gets lazy like when you and the other kiddos on this floor wait to do your homework until the last minute, except when your pancreas gets lazy, it can make you really sick like you are right now. Your body needs insulin to break down sugars, and when it doesn't have that insulin, all of the sugar just sits in your blood and makes you feel bad," Gilbert explains.

"Yes, and that means you're going to have to have your blood sugar checked daily now," Dad confirms, "and Papa and I are going to be watching what you eat more closely."

This isn't what Alfred wants to hear. "Even after I leave the hospital?"

Dad nods his head firmly and says, "Yes, now hold still."

Alfred braces himself and tenses when the silver needle goes into his hand. It sucks how much he's getting used to this torment now. Dad shushes him when he cries out and kisses the stinging hand as an apology, chasing off most of the pain.

Then, he pulls out the needle and makes sure the new catheter is where it should be before putting some fresh medical tape over his hand. "All done..."

Alfred hiccups, not feeling much better.

"Kid, it's like super important you let your parents give you your insulin and check your sugar for you. In a few years, you'll be able to do it yourself—"

"Years?" Alfred exclaims in shock.

Dad tries to restructure the conversation and present it in a better light, but the damage has already been done, and Alfred is completely opposed to the idea of having diabetes for the rest of his life. This is all too complex for him to wrap his head around. He has lived eight years without ever having to concern, himself with such matters, and now, suddenly, all of that's going to change?

Gilbert hops onto a tangent about how Alfred can live a normal life doing the same things all of the other boys and girls his age do, but it's hard to reason with the third grader. Dad does his best to help by trying to focus on the positives, like how Alfred will get to eat a special, wholesome diet and how the transition to a healthier lifestyle can be fun. He suggests that maybe Alfred could decide to pick up a sport or a new extra-curricular activity to make exercise more appealing.

None of this does much to console Alfred. In the end, Dad and Gilbert resign themselves to letting him cry and be upset for a while, which they claim is a natural response to such news. They sit with him and explain to him all of the ins and outs of diabetes, and how it'll only be a small part of his life, but it'll be something he'll need to be aware of in order to prevent future illness. He'll also be meeting with an endocrinologist a few times a year.

Eventually, Alfred calms, especially when Dad and Gilbert go to great lengths to try to find creative ways to teach him how taking his blood sugar doesn't have to be all bad and miserable. They come up with a system where Dad promises that every time Alfred lets his blood sugar be checked without putting up a fuss, he'll get a little sticker, and if he collects enough stickers, he can get prizes from Dad and Papa for taking good care of his health. When he's big enough, he can start taking his own blood sugar.

"Can I take _your_ blood sugar now?" Alfred asks Gilbert, eager and curious to try it for himself.

Gilbert, having a not-so-secret phobia of needles himself, grins nervously and says, "Hey, I've got a better idea? Why don't you do it to your dad?"

Dad rolls his eyes at Gilbert. "If it'll make Alfred a little more optimistic about these new changes, then all right," he mutters, taking out the lancing device Alfred has been calling the "evil pen" until now and filling it with a lancet (one of the "evil needles"). Once everything's set up, he hands the mechanism to Alfred and warns, "Be careful with that now. Do exactly as I tell you, all right?"

"Uh-huh!"

Dad presents his index finger to Alfred and instructs, "Press it up to the pad of my finger and click the button on the side, gently please. Only click the button once."

Lips pursed in concentration, Alfred does as instructed and feels Dad instinctively flinch for a moment. "Did I do it right?"

And sure enough, there's a little drop of blood on Dad's finger, and Alfred gets a little squeamish at the sight of it. Dad presses it to the strip attached to a glucose meter, and a moment later, his blood sugar registers.

"Ninety-two," Dad says. "Perfectly normal."

Gilbert scoffs at him. "I bet mine is even better than yours."

"When did this become a competition?" Dad huffs.

"Right now. Come on, Alfred. Check my sugar next."

Dad raises his brows and smirks. "I doubt you'll be happy with the result, Gilbert. You've already had two energy drinks today."

But Alfred is already pleading with Dad to set the lancing device up for him again because he wants to give doctoring another go. When it's ready, he holds it up to Gilbert's index finger just as he did to Dad's and is about to press the button when suddenly, Gilbert loses his courage and chickens out, snatching his hand back.

"You're worse than a child," Dad teases him.

"I-I just realized it's time for my rounds and—" Gilbert anxiously glances at his watch and stands up, waiting for the best moment to slip away and escape. He also stifles a sneeze into the sleeve of his white coat.

"Oh, no you don't. Who's setting the bad example now? If Alfred can have his blood sugar checked six times a day, you can have it done once. It's just a tiny needle… No worse than a bee sting."

"Bee stings hurt!" Gilbert retorts before he can stop himself.

Alfred sends the doctor a sympathetic expression and says, "I can hold your hand if you want!"

"Nope, I'm good!" Gilbert insists, jogging to the door. "See you both later on this awesome Christmas Eve. I heard Santa might be dropping by later, so let me know if you hear anything, okay?"

Dad and Alfred watch the man scamper away and exchange a smile among themselves.

"He won't get away with this so easily, don't worry," Dad vows.

"He's a bad patient," Alfred claims.

"Yes, he certainly is."

And something tells Alfred that perhaps this Christmas won't be as dull as he thought it would be.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** I'm finally back, everyone! Thank you for all of the support. I hope you enjoy this last chapter. I have two more medical AU requests to fill back-to-back after this, so keep an eye out for them!

* * *

What the heck is up with Christmas Eve anyway?

Why not just have Christmas right away and avoid waiting another twenty-four hours to prolong the inevitable? It's downright unjust and immoral to expect an overzealous eight-year-old to spare another arduous day of waiting for what is arguably the greatest holiday of the year.

Alfred broods about it and rolls around from side to side in bed, glaring at the ticking clock on the wall in the hopes that staring it down will make the seconds pass just a little bit faster. Dad tells him nothing good will come out of griping and grumbling all day, and he'd be much better off passing the time by coloring or reading one of the books a nice social worker brought to him the other day.

Fortunately, Gilbert comes to the rescue during his morning rounds. He parades into the room with his stethoscope at the ready, nods appraisingly when he sees Alfred is looking better in appearance, and says, "You should be out of here in another few days, kiddo."

"Really?" Alfred asks because part of him has become convinced he'll have to stay here forever.

"Really," Gilbert affirms, crossing his heart with a goofy grin. He reaches over to pick up Alfred's hand so he can check his IV, but he suddenly freezes up midway, shoulders tensing with a little quiver before he turns his head to the side and lets out an enormous sneeze into the crook of his arm. It's so powerful that it manages to rattle the IV pole and the bag of medication hanging from it.

Dad blinks owlishly at the jovial physician, tugs a few tissues out of a box on the night-table and says, "Bless you," almost as if he'd expected the outburst. "Don't tell me you've caught a cold, or worse, the flu."

" _Nein_ ," Gilbert responds defensively, reluctantly accepting the handful of soft tissues. "It's allergies. I think they changed the cleaning agents they use to scrub the floors because it's making my throat feel weird and scratchy."

Dad doesn't seem to buy this excuse. He's a parent, which means he has a built-in radar in his brain that can easily detect lies. "Or maybe you just don't want to admit to being ill for Christmas."

"I haven't been sick since the nineties," Gilbert assures with a congested sniffle. "Ugh, I'm gonna have to change this damned white coat now."

"I'm sure it has seen worse…Do you have a fever?"

"The awesome Dr. Gilbert Beilschmidt doesn't get fevers, okay?"

Dad rolls his eyes and darts out a hand to feel the man's forehead, but Gilbert dodges just in time with lightning-fast reflexes.

"Don't mother me," he whines.

"I'm not. I just don't want you spreading anything to Alfred…or Matthew, for that matter, since he and Francis will be here within the hour."

"Well, it's a good thing I can't spread anything to them since I'm not sick. You gave me my flu shot, remember?"

"You know as well as I do that you can be vaccinated and still get the flu," Dad reminds, arms crossed. "You're a hypocrite. Just a while ago you were chiding me for not minding my own health, and now look at yourself!"

Sensing an escalation in hostilities, Alfred decides it's time for him to intervene. He sits up carefully, puts his hands on his knees, and asks Gilbert, very seriously, "Do you want to hold Gilbear to feel better?"

Gilbert's mouth snaps shut as he's about to go off on Dad again, and his expression contorts into one of awe. "Oh, kid, that's all right. You hang on to him for me a little longer, okay? You need him more than I do."

"Ah-ha," Dad interrupts, eyes narrowed as he examines Gilbert from a distance, "so you do admit you're ill?"

"You can't prove anything!" Gilbert mutters unable to keep up with all of the twists and turns of this conversation. He takes the first opportunity to storm out of the room and out of sight, the tail of his white coat billowing slightly behind him as he flees.

Meanwhile, Dad huffs unhappily and taps his foot in irritation. "He's never going to admit he's as fallible and mortal as the rest of us commoners."

* * *

The Save-Christmas-Mission goes into full swing starting at eight o'clock in the morning on the day they've all been counting down to—December twenty-fifth.

It begins with baking sugar-free sugar cookies (a difficult, however, not impossible task). Of course, Matthew isn't allowed to even think about operating the oven with adult supervision, so Papa has to lend a hand in the process. They make good timing, and by the following hour, the cookies have completely cooled and been decorated with icing (also sugar-free). One tray is strictly for the Bonnefoy-Kirkland family, and another is reserved for the hospital staff.

With the cookies crossed off his checklist, Matthew moves on to the next phase of food-gathering and makes sure to have plenty of snacks ready to be delivered to the ICU by way of the family car. Chips, pretzels, and popcorn are among the stash, and there's a special section of snacks specifically for Alfred's dietary needs that includes unsalted crackers, Greek yogurt with fruit in it, and a berry smoothie. He's not sure how much Alfred will actually be permitted to eat and whether or not Dad and Gilbert will deem them safe for his consumption, but Matthew brings a little bit of everything that sounds healthy just in case, hoping at least some of it will pass their criteria.

He also has his handmade decorations in order. He'll be putting chains of paper snowflakes up by the nurses' station and Alfred's room while Papa takes care of the red, silver, and green party balloons.

He hopes this is enough. He really doesn't want the celebration to be a dud, and it would be awful if, after all of this work, Alfred doesn't end up enjoying himself.

Papa says there's no need to worry—Alfred will be thrilled—but Matthew isn't leaving anything up to chance. Everything has to be perfect. If it's anything short of how he has envisaged it, he'll always blame himself for giving his brother the second-best of what could have been.

The drive to the hospital doesn't give him enough time to mentally or emotionally prepare. Before he knows it, he's walking through the double doors of the ICU and traipsing past the nurses' station where Gilbert is stooped over with his head resting on the surface of the desk, looking like he's just jogged up thirty flights of stairs.

"Gilbert?" he asks, coming to a stop in front of the man while Papa goes on ahead.

Gilbert doesn't seem to hear him, so Matthew pokes his shoulder instead. That doesn't work either.

Well, this just won't do at all! Gilbert was supposed to be the DJ, and he can't be mixing tunes if he's snoozing like this. What to do?

He follows after Papa to greet Dad and Alfred. They haven't brought up any of the snacks yet, just the decorations, but Alfred is already grinning from ear-to-ear, shocked.

"We're having a party?" he exclaims from his bed, and he's so excited that Papa has to calm him by running a hand through his hair and telling him they'll only be able to have the party if he takes it easy and doesn't push himself.

It works to subdue his twin for now, but Matthew has a feeling this won't last for long.

Plus, there's still the issue of how to handle Gilbert, and Matthew decides the best course of action would be to consult Dad, as he's experienced with taming the crazy doctor and can probably find a way to get him up and functioning again.

"Dad?"

Dad looks down at him with a patient smile once he's done scolding Alfred for being too rowdy. "Yes, love?"

"Can you get Gilbert to stop sleeping? He's supposed to get the music ready."

Dad gives him a strange look and furrows his brows. "Gilbert's sleeping? Where did you see him?"

"At the nurses' station."

"Of course," Dad huffs, suddenly sounding very displeased. "I'll take care of it, Matthew. Don't you worry. In the meantime, why don't you and Papa finish setting up here?"

He doesn't like the tone of his father's voice. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just need to have a word with Gilbert."

"Is he still going to be the DJ?"

Dad purses his lips and pats his shoulder absentmindedly, attention already diverted. "We'll see. I'll be right back."

While Dad marches off, Matthew is left to sigh and speculate about what the trouble might be. When he can't come up with any sound theories, he, Papa, and Alfred all start blowing up the party balloons and setting them loose in the room, competing to see whose can rise the highest and be the biggest. Then, Papa heads back outside to get a head start on bringing over the snacks, and Matthew offers to help, but Papa insists he stay behind and watch over Alfred. Besides, it's freezing cold out, and Papa doesn't want him catching a cold.

So far so good.

* * *

"Beilschmidt, wake up."

"Arghh… I know… I already did the bronchoscopy."

"Beilschmidt," Arthur frowns, touching the slumbering doctor's forehead and retracting his hand when he feels the heat radiating from the man's skin. "You've missed your noon rounds already."

Gilbert flinches and jumps in his seat as he finally rouses, accidentally hitting the keyboard to one of the computers at the desk. "W-What's going on?"

"You're running a lovely temperature and need to go home," Arthur briefs him, feeling the man's forehead once more to double check his initial findings.

"I'm not sick."

"No, how could I even suggest such a thing? You fall asleep in the middle of your shift on a daily basis, don't you? I suppose you also miss your rounds every now and then."

Gilbert hops out of his chair and immediately stands up, but it's clear he's not at his finest. His hair is a mess, his cheeks are rosy with fever, and his scarlet, dripping nose is akin to that of Santa's favorite reindeer, Rudolf. "I missed my rounds?"

Arthur glimpses at his watch and nods. "Yes, you should have started twenty minutes ago."

"Ah, crap. All right, I'm going now."

"Not so fast," Arthur retorts, moving to stand in front of the man to block his way. "You're not seeing any patients in this state."

Gilbert growls, "I'll wear gloves and a mask. I won't spread any germs."

"Even so, you should be in bed with a cup of tea, not skulking down the halls, feigning good health."

In response, Gilbert gives another miserable sneeze and hides a string of coughs in a handkerchief. When he's done, he clears his throat and swallows painfully, eyes watering from the fever and the general discomfort of being unwell. "It's Christmas. I can't get anyone to cover for me now."

"You should have called someone yesterday, as soon as you were feeling worse for wear," Arthur gently reprimands him, but Gilbert has a point, and there's nothing to be done now. "I'm afraid you're stuck here, then. I'll have a word with the nurses and inform them of the situation. Try to do your rounds. I'll be over to help with your patients in whatever way I can."

"Arthur, you don't have to do that, really. I can push through the rest of the day."

"Don't argue with me. It's Christmas, and I won't stand for it," Arthur warns before giving Gilbert a strong pat on the back as he bursts into another coughing fit.

"T-Thanks."

"You'd do the same for me."

"Would I?"

Arthur smirks dryly and says, "On second thought, you would probably say something foul in German and leave me to fester in my own mucus."

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Gilbert jokes weakly before heading down the hall.

Still up for a bit of humor—that's a good sign. Arthur gets some medications in order, lets all of the nurses assigned to Gilbert's patients know that the man is likely to be a little more difficult to work with, and then goes off to join his fellow colleague in one of the patient rooms to assist with a spinal tap because there's no way he's going to trust the man with such a delicate procedure when he's running a bad fever. The extra vigilance is the only way to make sure everything goes well.

When that's settled and everyone has been tended to, including Alfred, Arthur finds a chair for Gilbert to sit down again and lines up all of the over-the-counter medication he sent for. The first is some acetaminophen for the fever, the second is a nasal spray that's supposed to be a decongestant, and the last one is a cough syrup.

"Trying to dose me up with all of this stuff so I can't work for the rest of the day?" Gilbert asks with a hint of frustration, but he takes everything Arthur gives him, and he must not be feeling well if he's being so passive about it. "This isn't fair."

"Oh, you'll be fine. Stiff upper lip."

"Easy for you to say," Gilbert groans, rubbing at his upper arm.

"Muscle aches?"

"Yup."

Arthur clicks his tongue, snatches up the otoscope from the front pocket of Gilbert's white coat, and orders, "Open your mouth."

Gilbert lets his jaw fall open and lets out another groan, intending to whine as much as he must in order to feel better at least on a mental level. As soon as Arthur's done checking his throat, a thermometer is shoved into his mouth, and he leans his head back, grumbling to himself about this and that.

Arthur takes back the thermometer from him two minutes later and nods, "A hundred and one point seven. That's certainly the flu and not a cold. Would you like me to get you some antiviral medication as well? It might help."

"I'll take anything."

"All right. I'll write out a prescription and be back in a moment. Stay put."

"Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."

Word of Gilbert's condition spreads quickly, and Alfred is particularly concerned. The man has been taking great care of him, and it just seems cruel that now he's under the weather himself. He wishes he could get out of bed and give the man a hug (which probably wouldn't be a good idea, but it's the thought that counts).

And it turns out Matthew isn't very pleased with the news either. Just as they're beginning their festivities for the day, one of their most important partygoers is down for the count. He goes and checks on Gilbert himself, unsurprised to find him resting at the nurses' station again with glassy eyes and haggard features. His collar is lopsided, he has taken off his tie, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone.

"Gilbert?"

The man glances over at him and forces a smile as a chill runs down his spine and makes him tremble. "Hey, kiddo-number-two. What's cookin'?"

"Are you okay?" Matthew asks him bashfully.

"Oh, yeah, you bet! I'll be fine in no time. A little case of the flu isn't going to knock me down," Gilbert replies in a nasally voice. His eyes are already drooping with fatigue, but it's clear he's fighting hard to resist the urge to sleep.

"I brought you a sugar-free sugar cookie."

"You did? Wow! Thanks!"

Gilbert flashes another smile and takes a large bite of the cookie, and Matthew is glad to have helped in some way. He wishes the man a quick recovery and goes back to Alfred's room, more than a little downtrodden as he realizes this party isn't going the way it was supposed to go at all. Of course, it's not Gilbert's fault he has fallen ill, but Matthew can't stop thinking about how Christmas isn't going to be the same now. If Gilbert's not going to be around to make people laugh and liven things up, then what's the point?

He curls up in a chair in the corner of Alfred's room, head lying on the wall behind him, and tries to bite back his disappointment.

" _Mathieu_ , is everything all right?" Papa questions him when he sees the look on his face. "What is it?"

Why is the world being so mean to them this Christmas?

"Nothing, Papa…"

* * *

"Here we are, a special order of oseltamivir phosphate just for you," Arthur announces as he returns to the nurses' station with an orange bottle of pills, a large bottle of water, and a blanket. He sets the pills and water on the counter, and he slings the blanket over Gilbert's shoulders and around his waist. "That should help with the chills, but don't cover yourself up with anything more than this, or it'll worsen the fever."

Gilbert makes a noise to communicate that he understands and drowsily takes one of the pills with a tiny sip of water before slumping over in a half-comatose state again.

"You'll have to drink more water than that. Soon you'll be the one with too many ketones," Arthur says a little teasingly, but the undertone of concern is obvious. "Have a few more sips. I'm sure the last thing you want is to be sent down to the ER to have your electrolytes replaced."

"Not thirsty," Gilbert sighs with a rough sniffle.

"And that's precisely why you need to force yourself to stay hydrated."

"Later…"

Arthur whispers under his breath about how ridiculous Gilbert is being and adds, "No, later will be too late."

"Just leave me alone already, Arthur."

"I can stand here and pester you all night."

"Damn you."

"Funny, you're not the first person to say that to me. You should hear what some of my patients say to me when they don't get their oxycodone on time."

Gilbert raises his heavy head a couple of inches and pours more water into his mouth even though he'd rather take a nap. He manages to have half of the bottle, and Arthur must be satisfied because he stops nagging him.

In less than five minutes, Gilbert's out like a light again, and Arthur leaves him to rest. He washes his hands thoroughly before he returns to Alfred's room, just to be safe. Matthew's cookies seem to be a big hit, as most of the nurses have been munching on them periodically, with some even saving a few for later. However, Arthur can tell Matthew isn't pleased with the results of his mini-celebration when he finds the boy huddled in a tiny ball with Francis looming over him worriedly.

"Mattie, don't be sad! This is great!" Alfred tries to soothe his brother, but it seems he is immune to the compliments.

Arthur glowers and looks over to the nurses' station with a sigh of his own, dejected. Perhaps they should open their Christmas gifts right now. Francis brought over most of them, and it might help lift everyone's spirits.

No, that wouldn't be ideal. Who wants to open gifts when they're depressed?

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek and tries to think. There has to be some way to fix this…

* * *

There's a Santa hat on his head.

Why is there a Santa hat on his head? Does he want to know the answer to that question? No. No, he does not.

Gilbert rolls his sore shoulders and sits up straight. The pom-pom of the hat falls between his eyes and he flicks it to the side, trying to recall the last thing that happened before he fell asleep. He took some meds, got drowsy, argued with Arthur for a bit…

"Merry Christmas, Gilbert!"

He looks to his left and sees Alfred up on his feet with his IV stand nearby. He doesn't remember giving the kid permission to get out of bed! What the hell happened?

The boy drops a gift box in his lap and waits impatiently for a reaction. At least the kid's got some slippers on, otherwise, he'd give him an earful.

"Open it!"

He blinks heavily and tears the wrapping paper, feeling like he's been drugged with a bunch of chloroform. He opens the lid of the box and inside, there's a mug that's shaped and designed like a giant RX bottle with " _active ingredient: coffee_ " written on the front, courtesy of a " _Dr. Espresso_."

"Do you like it?"

He cracks a smile. He really does love any and all forms of terrible puns. "Like it? I love it, kid! This is awesome! I'm going to have my morning coffee in it every day."

Alfred's face lights up before his very eyes, and Gilbert feels something stir in his heart. Gosh darn, he can be sensitive. Must be the fever.

"How are you feeling, kiddo?"

"A lot better. Dad said I can walk around for a little. How are _you_ feeling?"

Gilbert shrugs his shoulders and smiles softly. "If I'm going to be completely honest with you, pretty shitty—I mean—bad. I just have to sleep it off."

Just then, he notices the commotion going on all around them. The nurses and other doctors on the floor are all gathered around together, and there are some upbeat Christmas carols playing from someone's phone. The staff seems to be taking turns with doing rounds and checking on patients. Not many of the patients are well enough to join the party, but they all get to have some snacks, even if some of them have to store them away for later.

The staff members that aren't busy with tending to tasks are mingling and having a good time drinking apple cider (non-alcoholic, of course). Oh, and it seems Gilbert isn't the only one in a Christmas hat—everyone has them.

Farther down the hallway, he can see Arthur and Francis swinging Matthew around and dancing with him as the boy squeals and giggles. He can't help but shed another smile.

"I'm sorry you're sick on Christmas," Alfred adds, rocking back and forth on his heels. "I know how much it sucks."

"Ahh, it's all good, kid. At least I… I get to be here with all of you awesome people."

"You think we're awesome?"

Gilbert pretends to think for a moment and beams a begrudging smile. "Yeah, yeah, I guess you're all pretty cool. It must be because my awesomeness is rubbing off on everyone."

Alfred rolls his eyes and snickers, and it's like Gilbert is staring back at a mini Kirkland. "Want me to get you some apple cider?"

"I can get it, kiddo," Gilbert reassures, suppressing a groan as he stands up from the rolling chair he's been sleeping in. He walks with Alfred to the center of the party and pours himself a glass of cider, feeling a little better with all of this positive company around. Matt's a good kid for throwing all of this together.

A hand touches his back, and he sees Arthur hovering over him. Naturally, the first words to come out of his mouth are, "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yeah, I am," Gilbert says, ignoring his growing headache. "A little, anyway. In a few hours, I'll get to go home."

"Do you need me to drive you?"

"Nah, I'll be fine. I'm alert enough…It's nice to see everyone having a good time."

Arthur nods in agreement and ruffles Alfred's hair as he walks by. "Yes, we're making the best of the situation, but you can thank Matthew for coordinating this and Francis for doing the manual labor. I took your position as DJ. I hope you don't mind."

"What? This is inexcusable!" Gilbert shouts, trying to sound serious. "I've been looking forward to this for a week, and you think you can just waltz on in and steal my glory? I don't think so, Kirkland. I've got my eyes on you. This is war. No one, and I mean _no one_ , knows how to rock people's socks off with music like Gilbert Beilschmidt does."

"I'm not doubting your clear expertise in the field, but I think you can understand why I thought it necessary to be an inferior substitute. You clearly weren't up for any Christmas cheer," Arthur notes.

"Well, I'm here now, so prepare your ears," Gilbert huffs, grabbing the phone on the counter, which he now realizes belongs to Arthur. He scrolls through a long playlist of songs and starts making his selections. "This party is about to get wild."

He feels a pair of eyes staring at him from across the hall, and he turns his head to see Matthew blinking back at him with what he can only describe as unfettered admiration. It's cute, don't get him wrong, but Gilbert can't juggle all of these emotions and tingling feelings at once. He taught himself long ago not to get attached—to anyone.

He really needs to go home and lie down, but first, he's going to have another glass of apple cider and sing "Deck the Halls" at the top of his lungs.

Merry god-darned Christmas.

* * *

"Dad, I partied too hard."

"I can tell, considering you slept for ten hours."

"I can't believe you and Papa got me the lightsaber I wanted."

Dad tilts his head to the side in mock astonishment and says, "That was Saint Nicholas' doing."

"I know it was you and Papa."

"Oh, really now? How can you be certain?"

"I just know," Alfred insists with a laugh, feeling remarkably better than when he was first admitted. If he's not discharged this afternoon, he will be by tonight. "And thanks for making Mattie feel better about the whole Christmas party. You were a good DJ, until Gilbert—uhh, I mean… You were great."

Dad chuckles and doesn't comment on the slip-up. "I was pleased to see everything worked out."

Ahh, he's almost free again. Just a few more hours, and he'll get to go back to his own comfy bed and actually make an attempt at enjoying himself for the remainder of this winter break. He can play video games with Mattie again and pretend to have done Mr. Braginski's assigned reading and book report. If the forecast doesn't change, there'll be snow by the end of the week, and he can finally build his first snowman of the season.

Dad gives him a sponge bath so he can leave the hospital looking at least somewhat cleaner and more put together, and he's allowed to take off the horrible hospital gown and change back into his regular clothes. He has never been so happy to be dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater.

Oh, and to add to the good news, he gets to bring Gilbear home with him as well. He'll serve as a reminder of the ups and downs of his adventure here. Unfortunately, Gilbert's out of commission for the time being, and so, he won't get to see him be discharged. The man resigned himself to taking a sick day, and Dad calls him at one point to check in on him. Apparently, he's doing better after a night of sleep and is reading poorly written romance novels to unwind and rest. Typical.

A doctor Alfred doesn't recognize is the one to discharge him around dinnertime, and after getting copies of all of the paperwork and labs, Dad drives them home. It's remarkably refreshing to step outside after being stuck indoors for a week, and as soon as they reach the front door of the house, Alfred soars into Papa's arms and instantly laments to him about how hungry he is and how deprived of food he's been as of late.

"Oh, _mon lapin_ , do not worry, I already have something on the stove for you. My poor boy! You must be starving. Papa will take good care of you from now on," Papa assures, pecking Alfred's forehead before sending him off to reunite with Matthew and their shared bedroom.

"Mattie! I'm hooooooome!" Alfred exclaims, bounding up the steps before tackling his brother and grabbing him in a playful chokehold. "Wanna play that dragon game you got for Christmas?"

He needn't have asked. The answer is a resounding yes.

He places Gilbear at the head of the bed, promises he'll talk to Gilbert when Dad calls him tonight to make sure he's all right, and sits down in front of the T.V. for a long-awaited gaming session with his favorite (and only) brother. And suddenly, all the talk of diabetes and blood sugar and his treatment plan is all a footnote—just a little sector of his life that he has to pay a little bit of mind to every now and then. He knows Papa, Dad, Gilbert, and even Matthew will have his back through it all, and the thought of having this disease isn't so scary anymore.

He is home at last.


End file.
